


In the Shadows of Amn

by OldWinterAxe



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-02-12 17:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldWinterAxe/pseuds/OldWinterAxe
Summary: Not all the stories of the Bhaalspawn Wars star the Bhaalspawn themselves.  Some follow the many and myriad folks those that get dragged along in their wake and are forced to survive the tumult.  This is the story of one such person, a Shadow Thief named Sime, forced to navigate treacherous times and dangerous situations as she finds herself playing a part in this great story as it plays out across Faerun.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 7





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> Some readers may have seen a much older version of the story elsewhere. If you have, I hope you will enjoy the updated version being republished here. 
> 
> Also, this is a testament to how a few lines for a few very minor characters can spawn something much bigger. Sime does get a few lines of dialogue in game. Those lines stuck in my head and well... slowly became this story. Hope you all enjoy.

**Chapter 1**

_Meetings_

The deceptively heavy and reinforced door slammed shut with enough force to send a small rain of crumbling plaster down on the ratty carpet by the door. As the dust settled, the room’s sole obvious occupant could not help but smile. That man, with flowing blonde locks and attired in well-curated fraying excellence, chuckled into the air and plunked his excellently maintained boots up on a once richly brocaded hassock. After a long moment staring at the still shut door, he gestured his hand towards the stairwell.

“That went better than I thought, and yet…” the blonde man nonchalantly waved at the well-closed door as he watched Sime slide the panel back under the stairs and slip out of the hideaway.

“The important thing is that we’ve secured her help,” replied Sime as she assiduously began dusting herself off. The dust and spider webs clung to her well-tooled black leather and to her skin, marring the black finish and staining her dusky skin grey until she wiped herself down with the edge of one of the rotting curtains. A few expert brushes of the faded cotton corrected most of the damage. Now at least presentable, she slid into the only other passable chair in the room. Eyes fixed on the blonde man, she unpinned her long, jet black tresses and began brushing out the dust. “And Gaelan? You really, -really- need to clean back there. I get keeping the front of ‘very down at the heels businessman’, but you could spare a moment for the hideaway.”

Gaelan Bayle grinned widely and stroked his perfectly sculpted goatee. “I suppose I could, Sime. But, somehow watching you so thoroughly dust yourself off…”

She hurled a pillow at him with deadly accuracy. He deflected it with equal skill. “Gaelan, you are dirty, no good scoundrel.”

“Why the Shadowmaster had me play this part,” he said with a grin while plucking the collar of his faded embroidered jacket. 

“And I thought it was because you played a cretin so well,” Sime said, flashing a grin full of white teeth and snapping her fingers. “Some might say you play it so well you were born into it.”

“True skill is making stupidity believable,” the bard replied with a laugh. 

“I just thought it involved going ‘Coo-eee’,” Sime replied, impersonating Bayle’s ‘trademark’ affectation, “Until the marks’ brains bleed from their ears.”

Bayle laughed and smiled. “Come now Sime. You know how people thrive on feeling superior to others. Act the fool and people underestimate you. Their purses end up lighter, I end up wealthier and the Council remains quite pleased with me. Something you should keep well in mind.”

A fine eyebrow arched as Sime’s dark eyes narrowed. She studied the smiling blonde man, looking for some sign of danger. Bayle’s reputation was not that of a violent man, he was the kind who’d rather talk his way out of a problem than resort to steel. Still, these -were- trying times. Right hand very subtly sliding to the short sword at her hip, she asked incredulously, “Was that a threat, Bayle?”

“No Sime, it was not,” Bayle said with a wide smile and a hint of a chuckle. “I don’t threaten. If there was an _irresolvable_ problem between us, my sweet sandstorm, I certainly wouldn’t take care of it in person. Blood is _so_ trying on the wardrobe.” He brushed his sleeve disdainfully. “But it is a warning. You have risen fast and far since the… unpleasantness began. Now, no one would question your skill, but not all of us are as collegial as you and I. Just be careful. It would be unfortunate to lose a mind… and a face like yours.” He smile crept into an almost friendly leer. “A face so beautiful it is wasted in the dark. You should join me out in the light where you could use all your talents. I could find you an … excellent place.”

Sime rolled her eyes then flashed a pleasant smile. Voice as sweet as honey, she replied, “I swear, no matter how much the Shadowmaster likes you, if you say ‘underneath you’ with that same leer, I’ll cut your tonks off and use them for a new coin pouch.”

Bayle touched a hand to his forehead and made a flourishing half bow from his chair. “Dear Sime, I would never make such a crude and boorish remark. I simply believe you would be best suited to the grift. Beauty weakens minds and resolve so readily. To pair such beauty with a mind as sharp as yours? The opportunities are limitless.” He smiled. It was a surprisingly pleasant smile. “Skulking about in the dark and rifling through drawers is best left to those to whom darkness is a blessing.”

Sime snorted, stepping into the sweep of this old dance with the ease of long practice. “Beauty can distract more than just the mark.” Grinning, she leaned forward, offering a view of her cleavage to Bayle. She never would be accused of having a great deal of it, but she did think what the gods had gifted her was quite eye catching. 

“It has been known to happen, Sime,” Bayle said with a smile, his eyes defiantly staying locked on hers. “But only to those weak in will.”

Sime nodded, her respect for Gaelen intact as she stood. “And Gaelan Bayle’s never been weak on will?”

“Not for many years. It is why I still draw breath while many competitors have given up that habit.”

“Indeed. Well, while this has been both fun and educational, I need to report to the Shadowmaster. If he doesn’t get his report before he gets a troupe of disgruntled paladins knocking on his door, he will be less than pleased.”

“And that would be exceptionally unfortunate.”

“Only for a short period,” Sime said with a matter of fact shrug of her shoulders.

“Well, then I bid thee adieu. I do have another meeting in an hour. I should prepare,” with a nod, Bayle stood and headed for the back of the house.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Bayle?”

“Oh, of course. Do be careful out there Sime. It’s getting dangerous for us, and not just the fools and the incautious.”

“Thanks Bayle, but I was thinking of something else,” she arched an eyebrow impatiently and extended her hand. “You know - the _money_?”

“Ahh, the money,” Bayle said with a laugh. Tossing the deceptively heavy pouch to Sime, he added, “Just testing your attention to detail.”

“Yeah. Right,” Sime replied with a short little laugh, snagging the pouch out of the air. As Bayle disappeared into the kitchen with another musical laugh, she began wrapping the pouch in a heavy wool blanket to deafen the clink of coin and gem. Shadow Thief or no, walking through this part of the city with that much coin rattling would be the height of folly. Slipping the bundle into her bag, she slipped out the side door and into an alley. She had an appointment to keep.

\--@@@---

Her journey through the winding side streets and alleys of the slums of Athkatla to the new dock headquarters passed more eventfully than she would have liked. The confrontation with a mangy mutt that seemed to think her calf would make a lovely meal was obnoxious but not noteworthy. Finding herself face to face with two enterprising if independent would be robbers this close to the Shadow Thieves’s center of power was unusual. That she had to draw steel - _after_\- she informed them of whose business she was on transformed the situation to dangerous. 

Sime kept her fingers on the pulse of the city. Not just professionally but for her own well-being. The Organization’s losses had risen to common gossip. Their grip on the city was no longer iron clad. Power ebbed and flowed; wars came and went in the underworld. That was just business. Most everyone just rubbed along and let those things play out on their own, keeping their heads down so that when the dust settled, they didn’t get popped. Yet these two bully boys attempting a mugging forced a rapid reevaluation. Even an amateur student of the street could read the implications on the balance of power when a couple of thugs actually considering threatening and even robbing a Shadow Thief. The second and third order calculations spawned from such an encounter only underscored the emphasis the Shadowmaster had leveled on her assignment.

The full weight of that analysis settled on her shoulders as she squared off against these enterprising would be robbers. From the dull gleam in their eyes, they too were doing additional ‘calculations’, adding a few less savory actions to the list of things they intended to do to her as they attempted a poorly designed pincer move. The sloppiness of their execution and the animal desire lurking in those eyes argued for a very thorough object lesson. If she hadn’t been so pressed for time and if her analysis didn’t legitimately worry her, she would have dedicated the time and effort to _completely _schooling these two fools. Instead, she settled for some pointed commentary and even more pointed bladework, leaving the two buffoons only bloodied as they scrambled off to their mamas.

Now free and clear, she slipped down one of the disguised alleyways towards the headquarters. Crouching behind a deceptively well-fortified pile of rotting boxes, she turned her attentions to the locks and wards guarding this entrance. Hands now occupied, her mind was free to turn her full attention to exactly how far the Organization’s fortunes had fallen in the last few weeks. Center place in her analysis was the critical importance of her operation to secure the assistance of one Aleria of Candlekeep. From her predecessors’ notes, the contacted originated as a simple money making scheme with the side benefit of infuriating those insufferable Cowled jerks after the whole failed Promenade incident, something no one was willing to tell her much about. Now, it represented vitally needed funds and a contact with frighteningly needed muscle.

Nothing reflected their change in fortunes better than the fact that she now handled such an important assignment for Rhuar Darkshadow, the Shadowmaster’s spymaster. Bayle hadn’t been kidding about how rapid the rise was for one Sime, late of Calimport. She’d gone from ‘young but promising infiltrator’ to running this operation after the disappearance of the two former operation managers. The first one, Tolan, one of the Darkshadow’s best, simply disappeared weeks ago. The second one, Dyana, well… they’d found her. Well, parts of her. Here and there. The look of frozen terror on her face was enough to keep Sime on her guard, even here in the heart of the Shadow Thieves territory.

Tolan and Dyana were far from the only losses, she reflected as she slipped inside the door and set about resetting the traps. The sudden guild war had decimated the ranks, and not just the low levels. She’d lost a couple of old friends, Gan even daring to defect to this new guild. He’d been a well-respected specialist in second story work. Add in the rumor that one of the Council had disappeared two nights ago and that such a rumor even existed did not augur well.

Worse now was that the weakness inside was now apparent outside. Those thugs were just the start of it. If she knew it, the Shadowmaster most certainly did. That’s why the Shadowmaster now needed the help of an Order knight. A bloody _Tyrran_ Order knight to boot. 

Leaving her reverie as she approached the checkpoint, she nodded to the guards protecting this access to the Shadowmaster’s interview chambers. Yorrin, a massive, bearded blonde man from Icewind Dale and one of the Shadowmaster’s personal armsmen, stepped out of the darkness. “You’re running a little late, Sime,” he said plainly.

Sime handed over her bag for inspection. “Ran into some punks who were thinking of robbing me.”

“You teach ‘em a lesson?” he never looked up as he carefully and professionally searched the bag.

“If I had, I’d be even later. Just enough time for a tongue lashing and a little bladework.”

Yorrin snorted and proceeded to professionally pat down Sime. “Well, I’ll make sure Harrik sends some men around to reinforce that messing with our kind is a bad idea.” His search was short, effective and professionally intimate as and the big man deftly managed to relieve her of most of her weapons. She almost grinned that he’d missed one. Then again, if she couldn’t slip at least one weapon past even the best guards, she wouldn’t be worth much in her job. 

“You know, after that pat down, you owe me at least a drink,” Sime teased.

Yorrin simply shrugged and handed her back her bag. “You’re clean. Shadowmaster’s waiting.”

“Thanks Yorrin,” she said with a smile.

The smile was returned. “You’re welcome. It’s nice a few of you actually appreciate the need for security, especially now. Some aren’t so understanding.”

“What can I say, we’re not exactly a trusting bunch,” she said with a shrug. “No one likes being unarmed. So some are gonna grump.” 

“And some are professional enough to adapt,” Yorrin said with a nod.

“Course, it helps that the one doing the search is as handsome as you, Yorrin,” she said with a bright, teasing grin. 

Yorrin chuckled appreciatively and actually smiled. “I know you’d never consider the time wasted, but flirting with the armsman while the master waits isn’t exactly wise.”

“Can’t help it. It’s that desert blood, runs too hot,” she said with a wink. Yorrin opened the door with a smile and ushered her into the Shadowmaster’s presence.

The room itself, deep below the street, was large and richly appointed. Not so much because of the occupant’s taste for luxury but that the perception of such an occupant required it to be so. The rare objects d’art, the Matzican wood desk and the thick carpets served to reinforce that the Shadowmaster truly was a man of great influence and power and not to be trifled with. The appearance of power often times was just as important as real power, sometimes even more so. Confidence and swagger were important weapons in the battle of wills, and the Shadowmaster never left a tool unused.

Of course, the fact that the carpets hid pressure triggers effectively, the desk could stop any crossbow bolt and at least three of those rare vases contained weapons was just an extra bit of prudence.

Crossing the carpet, she nodded to the cluster of top advisors already gathered. Darkshadow calmly sat to the Shadowmaster’s left. Kelvin the bookkeeper to Darkshadow’s left fidgeted in his chair as he consulted a heavy ledger. Yzabel, the tempestuous head of the Knives, leaned grumpily against a wooden column. Nector, the Shadowmaster’s chief armsman stood impassively behind the Shadowmaster’s chair to the right.

The Shadowmaster himself, the famed Aran Linvail, reclined casually in his heavy leather chair. His finely chiseled features were perfectly composed. He could even be called handsome if one didn’t consider the mind that resided behind that pleasant face. His nut brown eyes regarded her calmly and pleasantly as she approached. He spared a slight smile for her. “Ahh, Sime. There you are. I take it that all went well with our new friend?”

She handed the bag to Kelvin. Screwing up her courage, she nodded, “Yes Shadowmaster. While she was not entirely pleased to hand over the money, she has agreed to meet with you.”

“Please, Sime, I am no slave to title. Aran will do.” He looked over to Kelvin, who quickly nodded. “And that is good news.”

“I still think it is foolish to involve an Order knight in our affairs,” Yzabel growled. “We can handle this ourselves.”

“Yet, so far we have little success in that, have we Yzabel?” Linvail said mildly. “We still do not know the leaders of this new Guild, and it continues to attack. We continue to fall back. Our losses continue to mount. Considering the pattern of these attacks and some of our theories, an Order Knight might be exactly what we need.”

“And what’s to stop this Order Knight from just wreaking havoc from the heart of our defenses? Of striking a blow for _Justice_? Or even worse, be working for whoever’s leading that other guild!” She spat into the fireplace. “I don’t trust it, Linvail.”

“It is a possibility I’ve considered. However, I do not think it’s likely. Sime, would you agree?”

“Yes sir,” Sime said hurriedly, a little shocked to be dragged into this high-level discussion. Knowing her word choice might just decide whether she would meet Yzabel and those hard green eyes in a dark alley some night, she chose them carefully. “This Aleria, should she chose to move against us, would not use this level of subterfuge. Yes, she has shown a greater… adaptability and creativity than we usually expect from the shiny armor set, but negotiating under such false pretenses is extremely unlikely.”

“Not all of those ‘knights’ are above such subterfuge,” Darkshadow pointed out calmly.

“True, but she hasn’t been able to secure any other ally in getting to Spellhold, not ever her Order. You have to understand, this Imoen is desperately important to her. Based on my predecessors’ reports and some investigation of my own, she is hell-bent to get her sister back.” She smiles crookedly. “Enough that she is ‘willing to swallow her pride and honor and deal with these dregs and dastards.’”

“Dastards?” Linvail said with a hint of a smile. “I rather like that.”

“Well, she was on her third cup of wine,” Sime said with a grin.

“So, you’re drinking buddies with this Aleria now, are you?” growled Yzabel. Her voice lacked its previous bite, showing she was grumping more out of habit than specific reason.

“No, but a few silvers and a serving girl’s dress picks you up a lot of secrets.”

“And where was that serving girl’s dress?” Yzabel fired back with a crude smile.

Linvail held up a hand. “I do not concern myself how my agents get their information, so you do not need to either. I’m sure Sime stayed with in the bounds set by Darkshadow, so let us use the information.”

“As you wish, Shadowmaster,” Yzabel said contritely, bowing her head. However calm her voice, those green eyes glittered dangerously.

“Indeed.” The Shadowmaster smiled. “Now, it seems Aleria of Candlekeep has arrived and is making her way downstairs as we speak. This should be an interesting interview. Sime?”

“Yes sir?” she said, already preparing to disappear out one of the side doors.

“Please join us. With your knowledge of our new ally, your impressions of her will be most useful.”

“Of course, Shadowmaster,” Sime said with a bow. At the Shadowmaster’s acknowledging nod, she slipped into a corner to wait and watch. The coming meeting would definitely be… interesting.


	2. Impressions

_Impressions_

With the chime of a single silver bell, the ‘official’ doors to the Shadowmaster’s chambers swept open as smoothly and silently as steel on silk. No hand touched them, their opening triggered by a switch activating a complicated series of hydraulics. The elaborate engineering stood as an object lesson to any visitor of the wealth and prestige of the owner of the office, a not at all subtle reminder of the Shadowmaster’s power. However, like everything else about Aran Linail, those same mechanisms served a greater purpose than simple braggadocio. The heavy metal cased doors and their powerful hydraulics would be nearly impossible to force, posing a formidable defensive barrier and gifting the Shadowmaster that much more time to deal with any threat to that carefully hoarded power and prestige. 

The seven figures striding through those doors right now perfectly underscored the need of function and the importance of defense. These were not allies yet all bore weapons in the Shadowmaster’s presence. The breach of protocol shocked Sime and she could see that emotion echoed across the bleak, stony looks on the faces of the Shadowmaster’s personal armsmen as they allowed the small procession through. Again she revised her assessments downward. That any business partner would be allowed to be armed in the Shadowmaster’s presence was wildly unusual. That the professionals running the Shadowmaster’s protection detail would show how unhappy they were added more color to the disturbing portrait of their situation.

With what was happening in the city, now was not the time to be letting strangers near the Shadowmaster fully armed. Yet here they were. Not allies, not friends, but partners of necessity. It played badly. It looked weak politically. One surreptitious glance around the room confirmed Sime’s assessment. While the displeasure of the Shadowmaster’s council was far better hidden, the tightness in stances and expressions spoke to just how much that allowing outsiders to appear armed while so many of their number were barred from doing so stuck roughly in many craws. Her included. Seeing outsiders, especially Order knights to appear like this stung like sand-laden wind on bare flesh.

All practical and political matters aside, there was enough romanticism left in Sime’s soul to appreciate how magnificent a sight these seven people were. They stepped into the room as if conjured from the pages of one of the stories Santiana used to read to her, a band of mythical legends rising from the desert to right wrongs and drive back the evil Sultan’s armies. Hopefully, they’d be doing just that for them, although she’d admit that many might consider herself and the Shadowmaster an evil that equally needed driving off.

Settling into her shadowy corner, she silently observed not just how impressively they appeared but also the deceptively innocuous precision of how they swept into the room, dropping into a loose defensive formation with enough practice to make it appear casual. Very professional, very coordinated and as such, very dangerous. As each took up their station, she quickly reviewed her personal dossiers on each. Some were comfortably complete and others, no matter what her effort, still had far too many gaps in them for comfort. 

To the left flank stood the darkly handsome and exceedingly intense Lord Valygar Corthala. His family, once powerful, had long ago fallen on hard times. The last of the line rarely was in the city, preferring one of their few remaining country estates. Also, he’d recently run afoul of the Cowlies, enough so that some bounties had been clandestinely floated. Best guesses involved the strange sphere that had absorbed a portion of the slums north of Winter Alley. Whatever the cause, the sudden disappearance both bounties and inquiries indicated final resolution to the situation. Apparently quite forcefully. And if the choicest rumors were correct, that resolution involved the death of a number of Cowlies, which was a benefit for all involved.

Standing to his right was another nobleman from a family long in name and short on glory. In his case, even the respectability of fallen nobility had long been sanded to nothingness. Anomen, son of the notorious Cor Derlyn. The man made drunkards appear as respectable and upstanding citizens. This was before adding in his unsavory tastes in whoring and his ruthless business operations. He’d contracted with the Organization on at least two occasions to eliminate troubling business opponents and there were indications he’d used outside contractors on other occasions until the good times ended and he no longer could pay his bills. Unfortunate things followed. The son, however, seemed to have fallen far from that tree. No doubt the influence of his mother as there was little respectable about the sire. The young man had joined the ranks of the Helmite priesthood and stood candidate for the Order of the Radiant Heart. He certainly looked the part, handsome face with well-trimmed hair and beard, intense, deep brown eyes, and spotless mail. He’d be much prettier if he smiled and stopped sneering and glaring at all around him like it was comprised of leper spit. 

On the right flank stood the notorious Kazakuran bounty hunter, Yoshimo. Despite the fact he emerged from the Promenade disaster in Aleria’s company, she still didn’t know why he remained. They seemed incompatible, yet there he stood. Not as unsavory as most bounty hunters, with a reputation for always finishing the job and doing it with a minimum amount of breakage. He could be surprisingly charming and witty when he wanted. He also showed no lack of bravery, for Renal still wanted his scalp over one of those amusingly complex and nasty little tiffs two proud and rigid men were always landing in. Likely the reason Renal was elsewhere at the moment. As to his past or personal life, his dossier was as sparse as that wispy mustache of his, a fact made even more annoying because of how long he’d been operating in region.

Next to him stood the wizard Kelsey Coltrane, perhaps the least physically impressive of the group. Short of stature and slight of frame with a shock of close cropped but bright red hair, he stood near his more heavily armed companions while studying the room with bright, intelligent eyes. She’d heard rumors that he was more sorcerer than wizard, more wild talent than trained. What that meant was a little fuzzy. Arcane knowledge was Darkshadow’s specialty, not her own. Unsurprisingly, her superior had not been forthcoming with those details. What she did know is he was the son of a minor merchant house who’d walked away from the counting house to make his fortune on the road. He looked far from comfortable here, but the defiant set of the jaw showed he at least intended to show a brave face. Points for that.

At the front of the formation stood the three most powerful members of this this … for lack of a better description, band of heroes. Standing to the left was a man whose files in Organization were as long as they were legendary. Sir Keldorn Firecam, long serving member of the Order of the Radiant Heart. Inquisitor. Knight Errant. Thorn in the side of not just wizards but quite a number of thieves. She knew that Yzabel had no love for the man after a confrontation years ago. The set of his broad shoulders and the hardness around his eyes showed his distaste for being here, but to his credit, his handsome, weathered face showed so little of it. No, he calmly watched and assessed, studying all around him without his obvious personal enmities shading his weatherworn, handsome features. She’d read the file and left impressed. In person, she was even more so. No wonder he had been a formidable enemy for so long.

The striking, leonine half elf to the right had the thinnest file of this cadre. She knew Jaheira was Tethyrian and a long companion of Aleria’s, all the way back to before the bloody business of Baldur’s Gate. She had apparently been married, but her husband, one Khalid, a fellow countryman of her own, had since disappeared, or at least did not appear during the Promenade debacle and as such was believed dead. There were some loose rumors she was a Harper, mainly from some implications she had been involved in the fall of that slaver scum Ployer. Bastard deserved every ounce of comeuppance he earned. Still, it was little more than rumors and wild conjecture, nothing she’d hang a scarf on. Beyond those broad sketches, little else was known. Direct observation gleaned little more, her sculpted, suntanned face and green eyes cast into an impenetrable mask as hard as polished wood. All this painted a picture of a truly dangerous woman, even more so than Sir Keldorn. Keldorn would play by rules; she did not think those same rules would bother Jaheira much.

Finally, she came to the key figure in this drama. Aleria of Candlekeep, daughter of the sage Gorion and spawn of the God of Murder. Hero of Baldur’s Gate and Savior of the Sword Coast. Order Knight and sworn of Tyrran. She wielded a holy artifact, a blade named, according to her sources, Carsomyr, that now rested slung across her back. She slew Lord Jierdan Firkraag, who, to everyone’s surprise had apparently been an ancient red dragon. Not only did she slay the beast, but she had the brass to wear his hide as armor. Cromwell had done an amazing job with the maroon scales, creating a beautiful suit of armor and accenting it with just the right amount of gold inlay and engraving. A more formidable woman she could not be, especially with such allies behind her.

Aleria herself though, was a walking contradiction. The Daughter of Murder who served the God of Justice, more proof that the universe definitely had a sense of humor. A tall, beautiful, striking woman with dark red hair and brilliant green eyes who moved with the simple efficiency of a warrior borne. That armor fit her like a skin but instead of using that to distract, she moved with simple economy of motion. She was a walking embodiment of dedication and the way her eyes fixed on Linvail and never wavered only underscored that in thick lines of ink.

One look at that face, with its mouth a thin slash of red lips, its perfect jaw tensed and its eyes as beautiful but cold as emeralds and even the dullest fool could see that this woman had no love for any person standing before her. The square of the shoulders and the set of her feet spoke of an unspoken desire to rid herself of them. Again the dichotomy screamed loud in clear as she clasped hands behind her back and favored the Shadowmaster with a simple, polite nod. This was a woman who did not want to be here but was so desperate to get her sister back she was here. For that, for her, this paladin was willing to work with them. Possibly even pull their collective hides out of the fire. 

Who better than a woman who literally slew a fire breathing dragon?

After a moment’s silence, the Shadowmaster’s face broke into a wide, friendly grin. “Welcome to my humble office. I've looked forward to meeting you. I am, as you know, Aran Linvail. Can I offer you refreshment? Perhaps a glass of Sembian red? Perhaps a Morvo 49?”

Aleria arched an eyebrow and her green eyes narrowed appraisingly at the offer of her favorite vintage. “No thank you,” she said, inclining her head in a polite but formal nod. “And I am Aleria of Candlekeep, as you know. Now that the pleasantries are through, could we please get to the business at hand?”

“Right to the point, then?” the Shadowmaster replied, his friendly smile never fading. “Excellent. You are a very capable person, and I wish to propose a trade of services.”

“I propose that you give me what I have coming already. I have paid,” Aleria replied with icy precision, her lips thinning to imperceptibility. A number of her companions tensed behind her. She hadn’t thought it possible for such a beautiful man, but Anomen’s sneer twisted his face into a dark mirror of the handsome hero. Apparently the tales of the Derlyn temper were not exaggerations. 

“I apologize if you feel you have been done wrong,” the Shadowmaster said soothingly, opening his hands apologetically. “I assure you, all that you have paid is being put to good use.”

“Good use?” Aleria replied, eyebrow arching severely. “Somehow I doubt that just by the nature of your organization. That aside, Linvail, I paid that ransom on the promise of assistance in rescuing Imoen and tracking down Irenicus. I have wasted much time already; I have no patience to waste more.”

“But these things take time,” the Shadowmaster replied quickly. “In truth, we have been working long before you gave us the gold. Only a few minor points remain, but they must be addressed. First and foremost, you will be compensated for the gold you have paid,” He waved to Nector and the powerfully built armsman stepped forward with a small satchel which he handed to Aleria. “I give you these magical items; they are yours to keep regardless of what comes.” 

As Aleria hefted the bag and looked inside, Jaheira replied scathingly, “Oh, how generous. Do you expect that to compensate while you delay our more important concerns? We have friends in need of rescue and vengeance both!”

Passing the bag back to Kelsey, Aleria turned to Jaheira, “And we will.” She turned her attention to the Shadowmaster, her eyes hard. “We will.”

“Of course,” he replied with a nod. “I fully understand your eagerness to set off after Imoen. I assure you that the time will come soon. It just takes time to allocate the funds and make the appropriate arrangements.”

“Time? Again this mention of time.” She studied Linvail carefully. “What are these delays? Are you no longer able to hold up your end of this bargain?”

“No, no, no, everything is as it should be,” the Shadowmaster smoothly lied. “There are merely some added difficulties that we have encountered. I regret that I must ask a few tasks of you”

“More errands?” grumbled Lord Corthala. “Aleria seeks both kin and foe.”

“We need actions, not words,” added Jaheira, jaw tight.

“Indeed,” Aleria said grimly. “Need I remind you that there were no ‘secondary conditions’ mentioned when this deal was struck.”

“I know, I know, you are tired and have worked hard already,” said with a carefully and artfully placed sigh. Rubbing his chin, he deployed a carefully couched truth. “I apologize, but this guild war... it prevents us going further. Much of our resources are tied up in its prosecution. Your assistance will only speed our ability to launch your rescue mission.”

“Indeed,” Aleria replied, her voice flat. “So, what is this task?”

The Shadowmaster nodded, gracefully acknowledging the concession. “Strange things are afoot on the Docks. Shipments are disappearing, as are my employees with them. We are significantly weakened by this. I think it unlikely you would be captured or wooed to the enemy. If you go to the docks and bolster the guard it will strengthen our position. We have an important shipment coming in tonight. My present guard captain, a woman by the name of Mook, is running the operation. Adding your support should ensure it goes forward. Also, if you do note anything unusual, please send a report to me.”

To her credit, the sheer annoyance and anger the knight must be feeling barely shined through. Eyebrow arched, she gave the Shadowmaster a stern look. “And what is the nature of the shipment?”

The Shadowmaster grimaced slightly. “Ah, Aleria, I must admit that the goods aboard would not be met well by the city guards. Weapons mostly, but I defend their use. The guild we are warring with are not like we. As dark as the Shadow Thieves are, we do not overstep our bounds. This new guild is different.” He smiled grimly. “If you seek the moral high ground in this matter, it is indeed with the Shadow Thieves. A surprising thing, but I assure you that I am true to my word.”

“Somehow I find it difficult to detect any high ground in this affair,” Aleria replied. 

“Perhaps. I leave the finer analysis of philosophy and morality to the theologians and priests. However, Aleria, examine your options here. Even by meeting with me, you have closed other doors. I know of your other offer, and I know why you chose our side. As unpalatable as it may be, attending to the tasks I ask is the only way to achieve your goal.”

“I shall never again say this, but I believe we must agree to Aran's task,” Sir Keldorn said, shrugging his mailed shoulders. “If our enemy is his enemy, we may best achieve our goal by helping this guild.”

“Sir Keldorn! I cannot believe what I am hearing!” Anomen shouted, his obviously boiling anger bursting through. “You of all people should know we must cleanse the lot of them!”

The rash outburst provoked a sudden and deadly shift. Nector’s hand went to the sword at his hip and Yzabel, who had been insolently sulking against a pillar straightened into deadly tension. Kelvin reached for something under his giant ledger while Darkshadow himself stilled statue still. Even as Sime reached for the small dagger she’d hidden in her left bracer, she watched Aleria’s company. The reaction on the other side was just as subtle but as deadly. Hands reached for weapons and already the wizard shaded for cover. 

She’d fight, but she knew she would die. She had an angle on the wizard, and with his death, the Shadowmaster might have a chance. Damn that Anomen and his insufferable temper!

Sir Keldorn seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. Voice calm, he glared at the younger knight. “And that would accomplish what? Death on a grand scale, and make our rescue of Imoen all the harder. Her life and well-being must come first, Anomen. You know this.”

Anomen stiffened as if he’d been slapped. “Very well, but this place is just as deserving of our wrath as of our help.”

“The rightness or wrongness of our actions here can be debated in full, -again- at a later time,” Aleria said with the same level voice that Sir Keldorn had used. “However, we need their aid. We have set our feet upon this path, and I will follow it to its end.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Anomen said hastily, much of the heat draining from his face. 

Relaxing back into her corner, she smiled ever so slightly. Interesting, the rebuke of Aleria carried far more weight than from the man he squired for. How very interesting.

Tugging at the skirt of her cuirass, Aleria turned her attention back to the Shadowmaster. “We will aid you in this matter.”

“My deepest thanks,” the Shadowmaster said with a slight bow, showing not a single sign of acknowledging what moments before almost became a bloodbath. “I will send one of my top operatives to serve as a liaison between myself and Mook, to make sure all works as planned.” He looked over to where Sime sat. “This is Sime. She will be my agent and factor. She will wait for you at the _Sea’s Bounty_ and bring you in contact with Mook.”

Sime’s stomach suddenly sank through the floor. One of the dangers of being thought of as good at your job was that your superiors tended to exploit it. She knew why she’d been singled out. She had been running the operation. She knew them, she had the most experience. 

She also knew that of all the people in this room, she was the most expendable. 

So as those seven sets of eyes fixed themselves on her, she stepped out of the shadow and took up her role in this drama. Weakness here and now, between these two players would lower her from most expendable asset to resource to be expended. She schooled her face in to her best smile, nodded and did her level best not to pass out as she weathered that storm of stares ranging from the mildly interested to the outright hostile. 

This was going to be fun.

Aleria studied her, the intensity of her stare seeming to burn right through her. After a moment, the knight nodded. “Very well. A pleasure to meet you, Sime.”

“Likewise, Lady Aleria,” she said, her voice calm and even, belying the leaps her stomach was making in her belly.

“I shall see you this evening.” Aleria turned back to the Shadowmaster. “I take it there is nothing else we need to discuss?”

“Not at the moment, no,” he said.

“Good. We will take care of this task. And Linvail?”

“Yes, Aleria?”

“I work with you out of necessity. I trust our dealings will be… forthright and that you will deliver on your promise.” Her eyes turned to green ice. “If you do not, our truce will end.”

“I would expect nothing less. I give you my word, Aleria. We will deliver on our promises.”

“Excellent,” she replied politely, all trace of the cold anger slipping behind a perfectly serene mask. “We shall talk again in the morning.”

“I wait for it eagerly.” 

With that, Aleria turned on her heel and led her companions out the door. As the doors swung shut on them, Linvail strolled over to the drink cabinet. Pouring himself a glass of dark brandy, he shrugged. “While not quite the interview I’d hoped for, we have secured her help.”

“Indeed,” said Darkshadow. “The Helmite may be a problem.”

“Simple enough to rid ourselves of him,” Yzabel said. “It would serve him right too, insulting us in our home.”

“I think he will be kept in check,” the Shadowmaster said with a wave of his hand. “And striking against the allies we worked so hard to acquire would only make our situation worse. No, we do not waste useful tools like him.” Sitting back down, he looked over at Sime. “And Sime, speak to Harrik about drawing better weapons. I fear that tonight will not go without a hitch. Best you be prepared.”

  
“Of course, Shadowmaster,” Sime replied, nodding hurriedly.

“And it is Aran, Sime. Aran. The title is tiring.”

“Of course… Aran,” she said, stomach turning queasily at the forced familiarity.

“Good. Now, go and speak with Harrik. Then meet with Mook. You will have arrangements to make.”

Sime nodded and slipped out a side door. Life, she felt, was about to get exceptionally interesting.

The trick would be surviving it.


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With an accord reached between the Shadow Thieves and the Bhaalspawn Knight Aleria, Sime now prepares to take her place as the Guild's liaison between the two groups. Now she has to prepare for her first assignment, working with her own people and Aleria of Candlekeep to protect a vital shipment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay between the chapters. Hopefully future chapters will come more quickly. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

_Revelations_

After listening quietly as Sime relayed the Shadowmaster’s instructions, Harrik nodded and beckoned her to follow him. The usually taciturn armsman went fully laconic as he led her deeper and deeper into the complex. He explained nothing as he drew her down one unknown hallway and then up a surprisingly well-hidden stair. Silence and curiosity killing her, she peppered him with questions as he worked a combination lock at the top of the stairwell. His shoulders tightened, he sighed and then turned. With a look of overtaxed patience on his face, he tugged at the left pauldron of her leathers and then tapped the hilt of sword he’d just returned to her. 

“Proper gear.”

Frustratingly not elaborating further, he pushed open the door and led her onward, now up a tight and easily defended staircase that wrapped around the outside of the third chimney and headed straight up into gloom of the attic. She followed silently, turning this new mystery over in her mind. Even though this ‘headquarters’ was relatively new, she believed she’d pieced together its full layout. After all, casing facilities was part of her job. She was dead certain she’d located all the armories, including the one serving the senior members. With a little work, she’d even triangulated the probable location of the _special_ armory, where the Guild kept all the best and most expensive equipment. Yet here she was headed away from all of that; headed -_up_\- and there was nothing up.

Well, almost nothing. One thing - one _person_ was _up._ As they drew closer to the south side attic, it became increasingly harder to think that she was headed anywhere but there. The part of the attic housed the near sovereign domain of Ailia. 

In a Guild full of legendary personalities, Ailia held a particularly luminary place. First and foremost, she was the rare full-blooded elf. Then came the fact she’d been a member of the Guild for time immemorial. Literally. As far as there were any records, which organizations like her rightly avoided, she’d always been among their ranks. Even the oldest hands knew her as having been there since their old hands were spinning tales. The only verifiable fact about her past was that she’d been their chief armorer for decades. These precious few known facts only fanned the flames of her reputation, already burning bright from her undeniably incredible skills and her equally unique personality. 

There wasn’t a young and up and coming operative who didn’t want a suit of Ailia’s armor. However, there wasn’t an operative who wanted to actually meet with her to get it. In an organization where hierarchy was of _pointed _import, her brutally blunt directness and complete disregard for title were legendary. She wielded the artist’s blunt equanimity spectacularly, treating everyone from footpad to councilmember with the same brusqueness. Tongues still wagged about one of the Council who had objected so strenuously to her rough handling of him he’d physically threatened her. Her response was to threaten to quit. Legend said the Councilmember found himself _apologizing_ and purchasing her a lovely mansion. Not that anyone knew if she used it. Or even where it was, just that it existed and it was spectacular.

Simply put, you didn’t deal with Ailia. She dealt with you, as she saw fit. Your only role was to do what you told as quickly and silently as possible.

Harrik swept the door open for Sime and waved her in. As the elf looked up, he straightened and nodded politely before silently closing the door behind her. Silence reigned for a moment as the gray haired elf studied her from her workbench. The weight of many centuries carved graven lines in the old elf’s face but her black eyes burned bright from beneath sparse brows. She wore a rich, finely stitched robe of brown with a number of measuring ropes hanging from her neck and sashes of sewing equipment bound around her waist. Silently, she pushed herself away from the workbench and stepped into the light.

Her left hand waved peremptorily to the raised platform at the center of the room. Sime hastened to obey, stepping up to the center and standing still and silent, hands at her sides. Ailia circled her twice, studying her with the same professional and detached regard Sime would favor a particularly complicated lock. A problem to be solved, not a person. A stare some might have found disconcerting but one she’d been subjected to enough it barely warranted mentioning except for what it said about the watcher. Finally, the old elf stopped in right in front of her and nodded her head sharply, obviously pleased enough with her analysis.

“Strip.” 

The order was rude and preemptory, however there was little to do but obey. She’d been placed into Ailia’s hands so she would do as she was told. Economically, she shucked off her belt and boots, then pulled off her leathers. She piled them at the side of the dais and returned to her position, now dressed only a brief linen tunic and her smallclothes.

Ailia arched an eyebrow at her chest. She lost the tunic as well, adding it to the pile before returning to position. She watched for another sign of displeasure but that last removal seemed to satisfy the ancient seamstress.

Satisfied, the old elf began circling again. Sime simply straightened her shoulders and turned her attention to Ailia’s domain, favoring it with the same scrutiny the old elf focused on her body. She started with the workbench, noting the perfectly straightened tools. The carefully wound spools of thread. The carefully stacked rolls of fabric and leather. How that contrasted with the loosely draped spider silk curtains over the windows or clutter of ceramic mugs on one end table. The old, well-worn tome sitting next to those mugs. Little details that started to fill in the broad strokes of who this old elf might be, a woman intensely focused on her work and far less so on the things around her. Much like her perfectly arranged tools and loosely braided hair. Interesting. A nice distraction from the chill of the room.

“Yes. Doable. Good coloring,” Ailia muttered to herself. Stepping on the dais, she pulled the measuring ropes off her neck. Methodically and unhurriedly, Sime found herself measured in every way conceivable. Not simply the base measurements of the tailor or even the more exacting ones of the harem’s dressmaker. None of them bent and twisted her into different poses, measuring arm and leg and body in each position. And none of them were as intimate either. Why the old elf needed such detailed measurements of her chest and nethers was beyond her understanding. Not that she particularly cared. If the cost of Ailia-made armor included the old elf coping a few feels, it was a pittance to pay. Plus, even if she did object, what would it matter?

Finally, the old elf seemed satisfied. At least, that’s what she assumed the woman’s curt nod and self-satisfied snort meant. Straightening, she carefully rearranged the measuring ropes over her neck again and shuffled into the back. “Wait here.”

The old elf disappeared into the voluminous back of her workshop, leaving Sime standing alone in the growing chill of the main room. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hopped from foot to foot to ward off the chill. She turned her attention to her work, trying to focus on the task laid out in front of her instead of on the fact that she was standing in a cold room wearing nothing but tiny bits of fetching silk. 

An unbidden voice chided that a properly trained woman could recite the thirty love poems of Musharr and the twenty Stories of the Veil with perfect pitch and cadence even if she were nude (especially then), but she pushed it down and away. That was another reason she left, she had no intention of being someone’s toy. Finally, out of frustration and increasing chill, she called into the back, “Um, can I get dressed?”

“Bah.”

Interpreting that as a yes, she dressed quickly and flopped onto a nearby bench to wait. Now more comfortable, or at least not as cold, she turned her attention to this evening’s coming duties as soft, indistinct noises came from the back.

After a long wait, nearly two hours by the change in light from the windows, Ailia returned, carrying a bundle of folded leathers and a pair of boots. Her eyes fixed on Sime and they narrowed. Not waiting for the order, Sime shed her clothing again and took her place back on the dais.

Ailia nodded and started handing Sime items piece by piece. A soft, dark, quilted tunic of undyed silk for padding. Greaves and cuirass the color of rich coffee and as supple as suede. Bracers and matching gloves of the same color. Slim line pauldrons that hugged the shoulders and afforded lots of interesting places for a short blade. As she slipped each piece on, she marveled not at just how excellently it fit but how flexible it was. Usually new armor was stiff and hard but this flowed better than her old and well broken in armor did. 

Stretching and twisting, she caught sight of herself in one of the full-length mirrors. The dark leather not only fit perfectly but also complimented her coloring wonderfully. “Ailia, this armor… it’s beautiful!”

“Of course,” the old elf snorted derisively. “It is one of mine. All my armor fits. This,” she tapped the center of the cuirass. “is enchanted. Strong and supple and will keep you warm. Desert girls always cold.” She snorted then handed her a pair of boots. “These muffle sound better. Keep desert girl from being heard and getting throat cut. Blood hard to get out of leather.”

She turned and twisted on the dais to get the full view of the new armor. It was beautiful but functional. She could move virtually any direction without a creak or rustle, no matter how elaborate a motion. Beauty and functionality, a wonderful thing. Seeing - wearing- this armor, she fully understood why people put up with Ailia. Yes, she was as pleasant as a hungry street mutt and had the kind of wandering hands one expected in a seaside tavern but she was also an amazing seamstress. No, she was an artist of cloth and leather. Smiling, she gave the old elf a hug. “Ailia, it’s a work of art. How can I repay you?”

The old elf pulled back, actually flustered. Apparently quite comfortable with touching but being touched back threw the old elf. Interesting. A blush rising in her cheek, Ailia waved a dismissive hand and grumped. “Aran pay bill. You? Keep whole. Blood bad for good leather.”

“Will do, Ailia. Thank you!” With another wide smile, one that almost reflected in the elf’s pinched face, she skipped out of Ailia’s domain. As she pulled the door closed, she thought she could even hear a merry whistle from the elven armorer. Smiling widely, she bounded down the stairs and searched out Harrik.

She found him in one of the antechambers that they’d passed on their way up to Ailia’s domain. A small smile cracked the graying armsman’s face at her approach. “Seems Ailia did her magic again. Pretty as a desert flower you are, Sime.”

“This armor must be something,” Sime said with a wide grin, cocking her left hip saucily. “To inspire the famed Harrik to be so free with compliments.”

He shrugged and reached for a small oilcloth wrapped bundle. “Not a compliment Sime. Just a fact.” He placed the bundle on the table. “Unless your ego requires more stroking, can we get to business?’

Sime straightened as she dropped back into professional mode. “Of course, Harrik. What do you have for me?”

He undid the bundle and started laying items out on the trestle table between them. “Not knowing the specific threat means a general approach. Upgrades where necessary. No new tools because those are up to par. Good on you for that. And you’ll need to tell me where you found this some day.” He lifted her glass cutter and placed it back with the rest of the tools. “Since we’re all expecting trouble, need you to be able to handle it. Need you to come back to us.” He started laying weapons on the table. “The short sword is good Sembian steel with a magic strengthened edge. Throwing daggers the same. Way better than those cheap steel slivers you’ve been using. Fly truer too. The hand crossbow is top of the line and magic worked. Bolts hit harder and fly further. And this…” He handed her a slim, capped case with hip straps. “Fifteen bolts with a shock charge. Even a graze will have them flapping like a stranded fish.” He pointed to the case and demonstrated the straps. “Straps right to your leg and ties off so that you don’t have to worry about bolts flying out while you’re doing one of your crazy acrobatic stunts.”

“They are not crazy,” she replied as she lifted the case, tested the straps and belted it to her thigh.

“You like crawling along roofing beams upside down. That’s crazy.”

“Gets me in and out without being seen.”

“I always preferred the windows. Lot safer. Not as far to fall.”

“Can get messier that way. Plus sometimes the windows are way up.”

“And that’s why we’ve got nuts like you,” he said with an almost paternal smile as Sime finished tucking the last of the throwing daggers into all the little places built into the new armor. He opened the door and started escorting her back to better traveled parts of the building. Stopping just outside one of the common rooms, he patted her shoulder affectionately. “Now, try not to get yourself killed. Shadowmaster’s spent good coin and time on you girl. Hate to see it wasted.”

“You and me both, Harrik. You and me both.”

“Now get moving. Mook’ll be waiting, and you know her and her patience.”

Sime smiled. “That I do.”

“Mask watch your back Sime.”

“You too, Harrik.” With one last smile, she slipped away and into the common room. The room itself was far emptier than it should have been at a time like this, just a few trainees having a quick meal. Another reminder of just how important her mission was. That in mind, she headed out and to her apartment. She needed a few more pieces of gear for the evening. After all, there were far too many unknowns, best to be as prepared and flexible as possible. Dropping all these surprises on Mook required the same flexibility. At least if she was going to do it in appropriate style.

After stopping for the appropriate gear and a quick snack, Sime turned her attention to dropping the fun news to Mook. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as dropping by and dumping a metaphysical brick on her. No, she had to deliver her messages to Mook at Her Warehouse. One of the Guild’s most secure warehouses. In the middle of this damnable guild war. Penetrating those defenses should only be marginally less difficult than sneaking into the Shadowmaster’s bathroom during his bath and finding out if the stories about his ‘natural prowess’ were true or just the typical propaganda.

In short, it should be _fun._

As she surveyed the warehouse district from her perch on among the gaudy cornices of Tarin Royal Importers, she concluded the only viable approach would be along the rooftops. With so few street approaches, Mook would have them guarded and locked tight. The few sewer approaches would be the same and frankly, she was not going to sully these new leathers with filth. The rooftops would be watched, but the watchers would be primarily watching the streets below. They’d monitor the rooflines, but only the ‘sensible’ approaches. However, there were plenty of steep roofs and jutting chimneys to use that no one thought sane. They were the kind of heights and surfaces that made most second story operatives blanch. However, such challenges never fazed her. After all, even the most impossible seeming walls always had a weak point. Just had to find it and not fear it. 

She didn’t. For her, the only way out had always been up. No need to stop now.

Skirting below the ridgeline of Tarin Royal, she picked her course and grinned, remembering the disputes over who’d get her for their work. Nhelus and his second story men wanted her for the work in the noble districts while Darkshadow wanted the young Sime for his scouts. It hadn’t been a hard choice. Jewels and gems were nice, but secrets? Oh secrets were the true coin of the realm.

After transitioning to Blackmarsh Shipping, she carefully removed her gnomish made spyscope from its case and scanned the surrounding rooftops for guards. She smiled brightly as she picked out each guard. This was just like the best parts of her childhood, sneaking around the balconies and the eaves of the harem, hunting for the snippets and secrets Jocana desired. The aging courtesan, once the Master’s favorite, paid the young, dark-haired Sime with smiles, sweets, stories and the best, her own secrets. One of those secrets eventually led to her freedom, a prize she treasured above even life itself.

She counted off the guards. Two in the corners, watching the likely street approaches. One watched from the shadows of the north chimney. Another watched the rear in case someone snuck past the street sentries. The final one watched the wharf approach. A very solid set up with all the likely approaches scrutinized. Mook even had most of the unlikely approaches watched. However, for someone not worried about a little line work, there was an exploitable flaw. The chimney watchman had too much roof to cover, the chimneys themselves obscuring parts of his overwatch on his patrol. Simply toss a line from the southeast corner to those roof supports and shimmy over. 

Carefully she picked her way down to the southeast corner, playing out a length of silk rope. The soft, tightly wound coils had saved her life more times than she cared to count. Scanning the dead end alley between the two buildings for watchers and finding none, she turned her attention to the roof guards again. Keeping her eyes on the guards, she tied the right slipknot on a roof support and then fixed a grapnel onto the other end. Waiting all eyes to be elsewhere, she tossed the line. The grapnel hooked into a wooden beam. A single tug proved it was secure.

Swinging out onto the line, she smiled. By all the gods, she truly loved this part. Nothing but a line between her and the ground. Nothing but her talent keeping her alive. Sure, if they spotted her she’d likely catch a quarrel or two, but what was life without a little risk? 

Suppressing a joyful giggle, she carefully shimmied upside down across the gap. At the wall, she swung herself up on the ledge and then up under the eaves. With a couple of carefully designed tugs, she pulled her line free from the other warehouse, coiled it and stashed it safely in her satchel. 

She’d breached the perimeter, in daylight, without raising an alarm. The hard part was over. Now came the really hard part, actually making it inside. The slightly sloped roof only had one main access point, a well-guarded hatch by the chimney. While she probably could disable the guard, Mook would be rather put out by her knocking out one of her people. So that left the second story windows, none very big as they were there just to let in light.

Sidling along the gap under the eaves of the roof, she found her window. The support posts and office blocked the sightlines to this one. Hooking into a roof truss, she rappelled down a few feet to the window. Fresh caulk sealed the window, a trivial barrier to overcome. A little quick knifework freed the window in its frame. Sliding the glass inside, she worked her way inside the sill and then pulled the line in after her.

Replacing the window, she dropped silently to the catwalk lining the wall. She was inside. Just had to skirt the interior guards and get inside the office. Piece of …

*CLICK*

No other sound sparked a spine-stilling shudder like the release of a crossbow safety. From behind her and the trigger of that crossbow, a very familiar voice chuckled. “The windows, Sime?”

“This side of the building wasn’t guarded,” she replied, placing her hands atop her head. “Best way in.” She sighed. “So, what gave me away?”

“Two things. One, I spread my spotters out further than usual. Had one you missed. She caught you coming along the roofline. Only the supremely confident or stupid would make a rooftop approach in broad daylight. Since my spotter lost you, and kudos for that, knew it had to be someone good. Figured I’d see how they tried getting in.”

“Okay,” she replied, silently cursing the luck that got her spotted. Must have had someone high… maybe someone up top LeMont’s? Must be. Might be the new armor not blending as well with the tarred roofs too. “That tells me how you knew I was coming, but how did you know it was me?”

“That’s the other part, Sime. I knew Aran had sent you over here. Ol’ Mook has her sources. So, when I heard someone was coming in over the roofs, well, had to be you.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

“That’s what the crossbow’s for, eh?”

“So, can I turn around yet Mook?”

“Sure thing,” The crossbow clicked as Mook engaged the latch. As she did, Sime turned around and smiled at the older woman slinging the crossbow over her shoulder. Mook looked up and smiled, her blue eyes dancing with amusement. Waggling a finger at her, she growled, “Next time Sime, use the front door.”

“Front doors are boring,” Sime replied with an exaggerated pout.

“Yes, but they’re less likely to get your little backside stuffed full of quarrels from jumpy guardsmen.” She took a step forward, placing both hands on Sime’s shoulders. “This war’s got everyone on bleeding edge. Already had to deal with some longshoreman nearly getting his throat cut for pissin’ in the wrong place.” She squeezed Sime’s shoulders and smiled at her, cutting her off. “Now I know you’re good, but you still got spotted. If it were someone not so understanding of your…” She brushed a few loose strands of hair out of Sime’s face. “Need to challenge yourself you might have ended up dead. Which would make me sad and piss Aran off royally. Possibly enough to have you brought back just so he could kill you personally.”

“Okay, okay, okay, Mook! I’ll behave.” Sime held up her hands in surrender. “Well, as much as I can.”

“Good,” Mook said with a smile. “Now, come here, littl’un. Been too long since you’ve been back to see your Mook.”

Sime grinned and gave the woman who was the closest thing she had to a mother a big hug. “Well, things have been… busy. Really busy.”

“Don’t I know it!” she laughed. “Now, come back to the office. I got a feeling you’ve got news from Aran for me, no?”

\---@@@---

The two women settled into battered overstuffed chairs in Mook’s office. A writing table, a weapons rack and an elaborate silver urn and brazier finished off the room’s sparse decoration. The urn’s bottom was fire-blackened and scratches marred the handles and lid but despite the hard living, or perhaps because of it, the artifact was priceless. This was the urn Mook used to brew her Guild famous coffee. 

Both women had some of that black gold in well-loved ceramic mugs. Steam still rising, Mook shifted in her seat. “So, now that you’ve managed to blackmail, cajole and threaten me for a mug of coffee, are you going to tell me what’s up?”

“You offered!”

“Well, I didn’t feel like wasting all the time with the actual threatening. So, I just credited your account.” She nodded and shrugged, the right corner of her mouth crinkling in a half smile. “Take it, Sime. You’re not really good at the threatening.”

Sime glared at Mook. “I can be intimidating.”

“Sime dear,” Mook said with a warm smile. “You are many things; smart, pretty, quick. Intimidating? Not so much.” She leaned in. “Now, spill the story already.”

Sime sipped some more of her coffee and lowered the mug. “Fine. Be that way. We both know the shipment coming in tonight is important. With the problems we’ve been having, not just with the attacks, but with general security, there’s concern that the other guild might know. So,” she shrugged slightly, hiding her glee, “You’re getting reinforcements.”

“We’re already light handed as it is, especially with that whole Mae’Var mess. So unless Aran’s cutting his own guard, it’s got to be someone from outside. Which would explain why you’re here,” Mook said calmly, gesturing with her mug. “So, that means mercs.” She sighed. “Mercs are always trouble. Most aren’t worth a pint of piss. The ones that are, you have to spend half the time worrying you’ll get a dagger in the back.”

“Don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, Mook.”

“Well, crossing us usually isn’t smart, though these days…” She shrugs. “So, you’re saying Aran went upscale? Who, Yarrick’s Company? The Silver Swords?”

“No. It’s not your usual group of sellswords,” Sime said calmly, savoring the shock she was about to give Mook. “This group is led by Order knights.”

“Order knights?” Mook yelped, eyebrows shooting to the heavens. “_Order knights_?” This time she hissed her question. 

“Order knights.” Sime replied, buffing her nails on her leathers.

“But… but Anarg and his people are dead. Those are the only Order knights that would work for us. And they weren’t really Order knights anymore.”

“True. In fact, your reinforcements are led by the woman who cut down Anarg and his gang.”

Mook went silent for a moment, lost in thought. She blinked once, then twice and cocked her head to the side as if by tilting her head, she could get fit certain facts to fit together properly. Facts that were, rather understandably, refusing to cooperate. Sime sat in blissful silence, just watching, trying desperately not to giggle. The look on Mook’s face was priceless and to laugh now would ruin it.

After another moment, she blinked a third time and looked up at Sime incredulously. “You mean to tell me that… that…”

“Yes,” Sime deadpanned, managing to stifle a gale of treacherous giggles by sheer force of will. “Your reinforcements are led by Aleria of Candlekeep, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Mook slowly shook her head. “Well I’ll be damned. Aran, you beautiful bastard, you did it again.” Looking up, she shook her head. “Well, I guess when you care to send the very best, you do. Do I want to even know how he got her to help us?”

“Long story. Wizards, lost siblings, the works.”

“Figures.”


	4. The Docks

**Chapter 4 **

The Docks

The afternoon passed quickly and pleasantly as Sime and Mook prepared the warehouse for the _Dawn Stealer’s_ arrival with their much-needed supplies. They focused on warehouse security, reviewing each element in turn. Based on her observations and nearly successful infiltration, Mook implemented all of Sime’s immediately practical suggestions for roofline approaches. Those tasks complete and security as tight as they could make it, the two settled into their respective chairs and caught up. The conversation roamed over old times and new, with Mook taking special interest in her interview with Aran. Sime having the full attention of the Shadowmaster worried Mook almost as much as did herself. However, there was no better way up the ranks than through his patronage. And now their combined survival.

As dusk started to slink over the docks, Sime prepared to rendezvous with Aleria’s company. Mook wrapped her up in a big hug and sternly admonished her to behave. To actually behave. Mook was her rock, so seeing her this concerned worried her enough to actually promise to do such a thing. That concern in the forefront of her mind, she left the warehouse and headed for the _Sea’s Bounty_.

Of all the taverns in the city, _Sea’s Bounty_ ranked close to the bottom. Sure it was convenient and boasted a high enough evening turn over that comings and goings were rarely noted. That made it an excellent place for a meeting. The problem was the primary clientele were sailors. Not that she disliked sailors. She generally enjoyed their company, their stories and their humor. She loved the sea. However, the _Sea’s Bounty _wasn’t full of sailors but instead _drunk _sailors. Those were a uniquely unpleasant bunch, a horde of unwashed and foul smelling brutes busily downing cheap booze while hunting for a willing body to toss a few coins for a roll in the ‘apartments’ upstairs.

In theory, she only objected to such pursuits for the tawdriness of it. Pleasure was worth pursuing, not for wallowing in like a pig in filth. If she didn’t have to deal with it, she could have even forgiven that level of sin. However, duty required her to be in the middle of this mess. That meant nursing a mug of one of the few decent vintages the _Bounty_ had to offer while enduring a barrage of propositions from the almost respectable to the disgustingly rude to the physically impossible. Endure them she could. She’d been raised in a harem and a guildhall, gifting her with a razor sharp tongue she deployed with reckless abandon. 

However these were sailors. _Drunk_ sailors. So sometimes the vicious put down or the snarled curse did not end it. Drink and lust left them too stupid and blind to anything but direct action. Now, the Thumb’s bouncers were usually on the bounce, especially with a Guildmember present. The Thumb liked having thumbs, after all. However, a number of ships had made harbor today so the _Bounty _roared with too many sailors who’d been too long at sea. One fight would end in time for another to begin so the bouncers were running ragged.

That left Sime to dissuade these would be suitors personally. Jocana taught her the key to ruling a man was controlling his most precious possession, the one that dangled loose and unprotected between his legs. One of her new Sembian steel knives flashed brilliantly in the low light time and again. So far, shining steel and hard eyes proved enough to cut through the deepest ale fog. However, if the night wore on much longer and her temper any thinner and she’d be cleaning blood out of her new blades.

She’d just finished disabusing a Calishite sailor with a face that would’ve been handsome if he wasn’t so stinking drunk when yet another hand came down on her shoulder. Temper fraying to the thinnest thread, she spun on this latest interloper with knife blade already ready to thrust. “No, I will not go upstairs with you. I will not show you a good time. I won’t lash your rudder, run up your mainsail or whatever bloody stupid nautical come on you’ve got!”

“Understood,” replied a woman’s voice colored with the smoky tones of restrained amusement. “Thankfully I do not need any assistance in nautical matters or… matters of another sort. Sime, I presume?”

The voice pegged the figure before her as a woman but the heavy cloak and hood hid every other detail. The woman, unmoving before her blade, titled her head fractionally, revealing a set of calm green eyes and lips curled into the shadow of a smile. The faint scar bisecting the right eyebrow and cheek marked her as Aleria of Candlekeep. Reversing her knife and slipping it into her wrist bracer, she nodded. “You took your time.”

“I was told evening. It is evening. We are here,” Aleria said, nodding politely as the knife disappeared. “Shall we go? Or are you waiting for that special someone amongst all these fine ladies and gentlemen?”

She arched an eyebrow at the ‘disguised’ knight. Two other figures flanked her, both coming into the light enough for her to mark them as a man and woman. The dark skin marked the man as Lord Corthala and the woman obviously had to be Jaheira. The rest must be outside. Getting up off her barstool, she shook her head. “No, I think the depths of this ocean have been plumbed. Shall we?”

“Certainly.” 

The taller woman fell into step with her as she led the way out into the night. Three of the others, dressed in similar heavy cloaks, were waiting by the street. The three tried so hard to be inconspicuous that they simply screamed ‘clandestine meeting’ loud enough that even the actually blind beggars knew trouble was afoot. She tried not to roll her eyes at their tradecraft. The effort succeeded when the fourth figure stepped out of the shadows. She was duly impressed. She hadn't even spotted Yoshimo until he moved. The man continued to live up to his reputation, marking him as even more dangerous then she’d originally thought. 

“You know, those are some impressive disguises.”

“I am aware. However, as there was no way the seven of us could be inconspicuous. So, we figured that being obviously inconspicuous would serve better than trying to sneak through this particular part of the district.”

“Not… a bad plan,” Sime admitted, cocking her head to study the redheaded knight. The woman had a point. The Docks district had earned its reputation for nefarious characters, clandestine meetings and illicit dealings. It should, the Guild called it home. With such a well-earned reputation, it was certainly not uncommon to see heavily cloaked individuals making their way through the streets. People ignored them, assuming they were up to something and knowing getting involved in things not their affair usually ended badly for them.

Part of her was pleased that their new ally had the forethought to come up with such well-chosen camouflage. The rest irked her because it pointed out the shortcomings in her own thinking. She’d bought into the idea that the shiny armor set rarely used tactics other than ‘Charge!’ and ‘Smite!’ Having that reality challenged made her a little uncomfortable. She liked it better with the Tinplates having the brawn and her having the brains. Certainly felt safer.

“Most tactical manuals do include pages detailing more than the frontal assault,” Aleria replied lightly as if she’d read her mind. A few chuckles sounded from behind them.

“Really? You seem to be the first knight who managed to get past that page,” Sime retorted, self-recrimination turning her tone tart.

“Well, I will admit it is rather difficult to do,” Aleria replied with a false sigh. “I feel it has something to do with all the heavy armor we wear,” She tapped her head and winked. “Overheats the brain.”

A guffaw, likely from Sir Keldorn, joined the chuckles. Mouth scrunched and eyebrow arched, she eyeballed the knight balefully. It was distinctly annoying when your opponent stole classic material like that. However, she couldn’t be too upset. A joke, even one that terrible, proved the woman had some sense of humor. She figured all that praying and armor beat that out of a person. Shrugging, she chuckled. “Well, you could try lighter armor you know. More flexible and far more stylish.”

“But how could we survive all our frontal assaults?” Aleria replied incredulously.

“It would predicate a change in general tactics,” Jaheira chimed in.

“Ahh, but Lady Jaheira,” Sir Keldorn replied with perfect courtly courtesy, “the Order has worked for centuries in designing the perfect charge. Whole libraries are dedicated to it. What would we do with those centuries of lore?”

“I’m sure a use could be found for it.” Jaheira replied. “Archery butts perhaps?”

This time the laughter spread through the entire group and Sime found herself joining in. The strength of the camaraderie of this group was unmistakable. Shaking her head amusedly, she stole a few more glances at their leader and chuckled. Perhaps they were not as rigid and hidebound as she’d feared. This might just work.

\---@@@---

“Tis a grand night for a stroll along the docks,” called a voice from the darkness as they approached the warehouse. “Even if the night reeks of fish guts.” The blade thin figure of Mook stepped out of the darkness, flanked by two of her people carrying hooded lanterns. Extending a hand, she grinned. “You must be Aleria o’ Candlekeep.”

Aleria recovered from the shock of seeing Mook suddenly appear from the gloom quickly and grasped the older woman’s forearm. “I am. That would make you Mook, would it not?”

“That I am.” She grinned. “If you don’t me saying, bloody fine to have some backup. I’ve heard a fair bit about you. Made quite the impressive name for yourself as an adventurer. Hero of Baldur’s Gate and all.”

“I’ve never claimed such a title. I just try to do my best,” Aleria smiled pleasantly and nodded. She had to be uncomfortable, but if she was, it didn’t show on her face.

“Claim or no, it’s stuck,” Mook replied, shrugging her shoulders. “If you don’t mind, aren’t you a bit too much the hero to be guarding shipments for Aran?”

This time the façade cracked. Aleria’s lips thinned slightly as she replied, “Linvail and I are trading services at the moment. That explains my presence in this operation.”

Mook pursed her lips and nodded. “Fair enough. We’re happy to have you, no matter what the reason.”

“Indeed. Perhaps we should get to the details of the matter?”

“Definitely,” Mook said, nodding to the door one of her men was holding open. “But, perhaps inside? No need to feed any prying ears.”

\---@@@---

With this many bodies in it, even Mook’s spacious office felt more cramped than Bayle’ understair hidey hole. Just to get to the desk Sime nearly had to slip into Mook’s left hip pocket. Mook took it in stride, standing behind her desk like a prelate at her pulpit while while Lady Aleria and her companions ringed around. They all crowded around one very precious document, the actual full and complete blueprints of Mook’s warehouse and dock. 

Mook, a wooden stylus in hand, systematically laid out the set defenses and the positions of her people. Aleria and the others nodded along, absorbing the details. There were no frowns or scowls and she caught a look between Lady Aleria and Sir Keldorn that looked downright approving. She considered it a good sign. While the Guild knew security, the Order, for all their reputation as a bunch of thoughtless knights, were a military force to be reckoned with. If they approved, their chances of success went up.

“So, Mook, just to be clear, your vessel will be docking at this pier and your people and the ship’s crew will unload the supplies.” The corners of Aleria’s mouth quirked as if she’d bitten a lemon. “They’ll bring them inside. How do they get moved to your guildhall?”

“You don’t expect me to be giving up all the Guild’s secrets to an Order knight, do ya?” Mook asked with a grin.

“No. I just ask to know if we must provide security _from_ the warehouse.”

Mook grinned and waved dismissively. “Not a problem. Once we get it in the warehouse, we’ve got a secure route from here to the guildhall. Never need to even sniff the streets.”

Looks of concern flashed across the faces of Aleria and her companions. Shoulders tightened and frowns replaced their neutral expressions as a look raced around the party. It spun round the party until it settled on Jaheira. The half elf arched a well-manicured eyebrow severely before leaning in so far a few of her braids swung lose. “So, what you are saying is that there is a direct route right into the heart of your stronghold right here inside this warehouse.”

“Wouldn’t be much good as a transship point if we gotta take everything street side. Some stuff’s a little too… bulky to move that way.”

“So, we’ve got a critical shipment coming here, one likely going through tonight in your tunnel system?” Aleria asked.

“Course. The ‘supplies’ are needed pretty badly,” Mook said, a little tension showing in her voice.

Sime’s stomach plunged into the earth beneath her feet. 

Aleria rubbed her chin in obvious concern. “How secret is this tunnel?”

“It’s not public knowledge, but my crew knows about it. Course, only a select few know _where_ it is. And what the passcodes are. And where the security is,” Mook said, her hackles starting to rise.

“And a few of those people are missing,” Sime said, the ice in her veins thawing enough so she could speak.

“What are you talking about?” Mook asked hurriedly.

“Jothan and Marta are both missing. So is Dayfin.”

“You don’t think?” Mook asked, the color draining out of her face.

“It is what I would do, Madame Mook,” Keldorn said grimly. “If this shipment is so important your Shadowmaster would bring us in, it is worth hitting. And if they are truly out to finish you, striking here hard could give them your own weapons to raid your base.”

“And since your people would know that supplies are coming in, they won’t be cautious about who’s using that tunnel,” Aleria added.

“They’re always cautious!” Mook growled.

“But if they’re expecting people coming through, they’ll be less wary. If they hit you fast enough, you might not get a chance to get off a warning. Then they just come down your tunnel and hit your people from within,” Aleria said calmly. “Tactical surprise. You might fight off the assault, but it will do damage.”

“And make us look even weaker,” Sime said hurriedly as she took the calculations to their logical end. “In fact, they don’t even need to do that much damage. If the Guildhall gets hit, confidence will crumble, no matter what the Council does. They can’t cover that up. If our heart is vulnerable… people will start doing the right thing by them and switch sides. Or just clear out, which is just as bad.”

Mook slammed her fist into the table. “Cyric take em all for a bunch of bastards. We are going to get hit. Bloody glad we’ve got you with us, Aleria.”

One of Mook’s people, Denthik, stuck his head in. “’ey Mook? That guy, he came back ‘gain. Thought ye’d want to know.”

One fine red eyebrow arched upwards on Aleria’s brow. “What man?”

“The situation is that we've seen the same man pass by four times,” Mook cursed. “He looked a bit different each time but I knew it was the same man. So, I set my boys to look and see if he came back.”

Aleria grimaced. “Did you notice anything else odd about him? He could live here.”

“No one we don’t know lives here,” Mook shook her head. “No. He’s casing the joint, think maybe casing me too. Now that you're here to watch our backs, I should be able to learn something from him next time he passes. Maybe find out who is playing games with us.”

“That sounds like a workable plan,” Aleria said with a nod. “The more we know…”

“Yeah.” Mook tightened her sword belt and grabbed her crossbow. “If this is the man we want, it shouldn't be too long until he shows up again.” She flashed a wide, mirthless grin. Enough to make Sime shudder slightly. “Then we ask him a few questions.”


	5. Deadly Shadows

**Chapter 5**

_Deadly Shadows_

* * *

Mook and Aleria quickly hashed out a strategy to deal with their new nosy neighbor in short, succinct sentences that for all their precision still sounded like a foreign tongue to Sime’s trained ear. For her, the prospect of open combat screamed of the plans falling apart, not something you planned for, so while she understood all the words going into things like clearing fields of fire and chokepoints they lacked the same weight that they did with the others. So she did what she had always done with confronted with the new, she sat quietly, listened and observed. Watched the knowledgeable and when she saw they were satisfied, she accepted her part in the plan with as much confidence as she could muster. Others might have objected to being stuck at the very back of all of this madness, but she had no ego to stroke nor any desire for glory. She happily left the poking people with sharp steel to others. Plus, she had brand new armor to keep clean. Hate to ruin it the first day she wore it

Once the plan was settled, the whole party swept their way out of the office. Walking quickly alongside the taller, broader shouldered knight, Mook dispensed orders with a cool and steady voice, passing word for the lookouts to expect attack and be ready. She watched Mook’s people nod and even salute as they scattered to their posts, apparently free of the butterflies trying to gnaw their way out of her stomach. She envied them dearly but resolved to not show her fear. She hit it behind her mask, just as she as learned to from her first walking steps.

Mook led the way past the heavy warehouse doors into one of the deep, soupy fogs that so often swallowed the dockyards. Aleria, still wrapped in her heavy cloak, flanked Mook to her right while Dago, the mountain of muscle who’d been Mook’s chief bodyguard for forever took his place at Mook’s left elbow, an almost comically sized axe resting on his shoulder. The image would have made her smile if she hadn’t seen Dago use that massive hunk of steel to split the head and chest of a half-orc who thought he should be running Mook’s operations.

He’d seemed so negligent about it too, yet one swing and gore flew everywhere. Three weeks later they’d still been finding _bits._

Shivering and not just from the foggy cool, Sime stopped where she’d been instructed, sheltering behind the cover of a pile of crates alongside Sir Keldorn and the fire haired mage Kelsey. Jaheira and Lord Delryn followed Aleria, covering her back like her bodyguards. Yoshimo and Lord Corthala vanished into the darkness, no doubt gliding to their posts on the flanks.

In the swirling, foggy night that torch and lantern light only barely penetrated, she watched the others, trying to understand this new and frankly terrifying situation. She studied how each person carried themselves, from the confident set of Mook’s shoulders, the looseness of Dago’s limbs or the almost lazy ease that Aleria and her companions held themselves. Their stances radiated calm and competence. Surety. She tried to emulate it, holding herself loosely against the cover of the crates but the tension flowing through her body made the stance feel foreign and alien. She didn’t have the trick of it, but then again, she had so far successfully avoided finding herself in any foolishly pitched battle. She’d faced danger, sure. Her job required it, but concept of an actual battle instead of three seconds of fearful poking in an alley chilled her to the bone.

She tugged at the cuirass of her new armor and pulled out her hand crossbow. Fitting one of her new quarrels to the notch, she took a deep breath. Both Mook and Aleria were sure that battle was coming, and she trusted their analysis. She needed to be ready. She needed her wits sharp. Something that would be a lot easier if these Mask-cursed butterflies would bloody finish eating their way out of her gut. Fidgeting with her weapon, she scanned the swirling darkness, trying to spot the trouble she knew was coming.

“You have not seen much combat, have you Miss Sime?”

Sime spun to face the grey haired knight, a scathing retort ready. She swallowed it as she saw his face. The expected scorn just wasn’t there. Sir Keldorn instead studied her with an instructor’s eyes. When he noted her gaze, he smiled slightly but no more. If he intended to mock her, he hid it with skill even bards and actors would envy. Shrugging, she opted for the truth. “I’ve been in my fair share of scraps, but this kind of thing, no.” She shrugged again. “Of course, in my line of work, if you’re in some big pitched battle, you did something really, really wrong.”

“Indeed,” Sir Keldorn said with a dry chuckle. “And while you may find it hard to believe, the same can be said for those in my profession.”

“That’s a mirage if I’ve seen one,” she replied with a laugh of her own. “You knight types are all about the glory and the sword swinging and the smiting.”

“We certainly train hard for the rigors of combat. There are times when the only course is the way of the sword, but it is never the preferred option, no matter what the bards sing. Why win with the sword what you can win with words and reasoned arguments?”

“No argument here,” she said, grinning. “Fighting is hot, sweaty, dangerous work. I for one prefer to avoid having people try to use me as a pincushion.”

“That would definitely be a shame,” the wizard added with a smile that if it weren’t for the looming apocalypse, she would have considered flirtatious. “Luckily, you have us here.”

Sir Keldorn’s eyebrow arched slightly at Kelsey’s words. “Indeed. Hopefully our presence will dissuade anyone from attacking. But if not, a few words of advice, if you do not mind, Miss Sime?”

“Just Sime, Sir Keldorn,” she replied. “And sure.”

“Sime,” he said with a nod. “And Keldorn will be more than sufficient. If it does come to blows, remember this one thing. Fear, unmanaged, is just as deadly as any other foe.” His lips thinned and lines on his face deepened with old pain. “You will be afraid. You _should _be afraid. But you must let it pass through you. Focus on your duties and responsibilities. Do your job. Stay back here with us, watch for enemies and look for targets of opportunity with that crossbow. Do not try to be a hero. This will allow you to channel the fear and use it, instead of being ridden by it.”

“Keldorn, you are forgetting one important point,” Kelsey interjected.

“And what would that be?” Keldorn asked patiently.

“Don’t die. Kinda important.”

Keldorn snorted. “Indeed.”

She chuckled and shook her head at the grinning mage. “I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t die. I think I can handle that.” She smiled at the old knight. “And I’ll keep your words in mind as well.”

Keldorn’s response was cut off by sudden movement by the workyard gate. Dago stirred, jabbing a finger into the growing fog. He rumbled, “There, Mook. Our friend returns.”

“Aleria, you keep watch. I’m going to go ask our friend some questions.”

The tall knight nodded as Mook slipped forward, Dago moving like her shadow. Sime readied her crossbow and watched Mook swagger over, one hand resting on the hilt of her blade.

“Hail there, friend!” Mook called out, her voice carrying that edge that insisted that you really wanted to make sure you stayed in that ‘friend’ category. Then in complete defiance of the actual situation, she continued, “Fine night for a stroll, no?”

“Mook,” the figure, heavily cloaked and carrying himself like a man of medium build but excellent condition. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Mook took a careful clearing half step backwards. Warning rang in Mook’s voice. “Who is it that speaks to me like an old acquaintance?”

“It is fitting, Mook, for I have been watching you,” the man replied sibilantly.

“Have you now? What might your purpose be?”

“Truly, my beauty, it is time for you to leave this life,” the man answered, stepping closer. “Guarding the spoils of another man's crime is no way for a woman to live.”

“You're welcome to your opinion,” Mook growled. “Perhaps I choose to stay right where I am.” 

“Choose not the difficult path, weak one. You will come with me regardless.”

Dago stepped forward, unlimbering his axe. Suddenly, the man _moved_. He blinked forward and struck Dago across the neck. The massive man staggered, dropping to his knees and clutching at his throat. A toothy grin reflected in the torchlight as he lifted Dago clean up off the cobbles. “Expect no help from these dregs.” He casually flung Dago away as if he weighed nothing. “Their death as written in the stars shall be fulfilled tonight.”

Frozen to the spot, she watched Dago, watched Dago’s _body_, bounce across the cobbles to thump against the crates across from her. Bile rising in the back of her throat, she stared at Dago and his blank eyes, the big man’s throat torn right out. She would have kept staring if it wasn’t for Mook shouting, “To arms! We’re under attack! Aleria, to me!”

She snapped her head up as Aleria shouted, “Kelsey! Light!”

All around her the night exploded in a storm of light and sound as night burst into midday. Armed men charged from both sides, screaming curses. Her people and Aleria’s companions answered with shouts of their own. Bolts and arrows flew, one whistling right by her head and burying itself in a crate.

She jumped, staring at the quivering arrow. A few strands of hair dangled from the shaft, dark hair - _her hair_. Left hand flying to her temple, she whirled around, looking for the archer. A dark figure stood on the roof, a new arrow already fitted to the string. _But those are our people up there! How? So many got so close… they took out all the roof guards!_

Another arrow whizzed by her head, burying itself to the right of her head. Figuring out how he got there could wait. Swallowing hard, she brought her crossbow up and fired. Screaming shrilly, the archer dropped his bow as her bolt struck home. She cringed as he clutched his hands to his groin and tumbled forward off the roof. She’d meant to hit him the chest, but she hadn’t compensate enough for the elevation. 

Still did the job.

Desperately reloading, she shouted, “The roof! The roof! They’ve taken out our roof guards!”

“We’re on it,” Lord Corthala shouted, his twin blades flashing in the artificial light. “Yoshimo, with me!’

“As the Swift Death commands,” Yoshimo shouted, katana in one hand as he bounded up crates.

Ratcheting a fresh shocking quarrel into her crossbow, she slipped into the cover of some crates next to the mage. All around her, battle swirled. Keldorn traded blows with two toughs in chain mail, a third at his feet. Jaheira, Yeslin and Kord held the right side, fighting against twice their number. Lord Anomen was bellowing and battling an unarmed woman. His glowing flail left flaming trails of sparks as he lashed out at the scantily clad woman, but the woman danced between the sparking heads of his flail. Aleria and Mook were fighting back to back, Mook’s blade looking almost insubstantial compared to the glowing bar of flame that the tall knight wielded. 

Aleria battled the grey-skinned man, the fully armored knight against a man whose clothing seemed more suited to the harem than the battlefield. Hypnotically, the two obvious masters faced off, the pale man’s movements a twisted mirror of the knight’s grace. They danced an intricate and mesmerizing two-step, her blade flaring like lightning and her armor flowing like a sheath of living fire she exchanged blows with the bare and beautiful man and his sword of midnight dark steel. Neither could gain the advantage, the grey man unable to make her budge but the knight unable to drive him back.

A scream to her right tore her eyes away from their dance to the battle swirling around her. To her left, she saw a man trying to flank Mook. Drawing a bead, she loosed a quarrel at the man, catching him in the shoulder. Reloading, she shouted, “Kelsey, what in the blazes is going on?”

“Waukeen knows!” Kelsey shouted. “Sime, behind you!”

Sime spun, bringing up her crossbow as a man with a wicked looking scimitar bore down on them. Trying to sight in, she gasped as a stream of fire lanced out and caught him in the chest. His warcry turned into a scream of pain as his gambeson exploded into flame. He managed a few more steps until the jet slid up to his face, his hair igniting like a foul candle. Her stomach churned as the man screamed shrilly and dropped to his knees, slapping at his burning face. Swallowing her gorge, she loosed her quarrel into the man’s chest.

He finally, mercifully, stopped screaming as his still burning body thudded bonelessly to the ground. Fingers numb with shock, she felt for another quarrel while staring at the robed mage. She’d seen magic, but nothing … nothing like that. And she hoped to never see it again.

Kelsey, for his part, grimaced apologetically when he noticed her stare. She nodded back. As horrible as that was, fights were nasty, bloody and brutal. Better the other guy ended up a charred lump than spending the rest of the evening trying to put her insides back in.

Turning her attention back to the battle swirling around her to avoid just that fate, she grimaced. Things were not going well. Kord was down, his body slumped against a broken crate. Yeslin and Jaheira were being driven back and Keldorn too was giving ground, both being pushed inwards. The Lord Anomen still battled the grey-skinned woman, both figures looking worse for wear, blood covering his shield arm and deep burns covering the woman’s now bare chest. 

Worst was that Mook and Lady Aleria were being cut off from the others. She heard the others calling out to them, but all were hard pressed. Mook now was fighting desperately against three thugs while Aleria now faced a second beside the grey-skinned man. 

Just like a pack of feral dogs, the enemy was trying to isolate them to tear them down one at a time. She tried to aim at one of their attackers, but she couldn’t be sure of her shot. She couldn’t risk hitting Mook or Aleria.

Something had to do be done. Someone had to do _something_. And no one else was left. 

Holstering her hand crossbow, she drew her sword. Jaw tight, she looked over at Kelsey and said, “I’m going to go do something really stupid. Watch my back, would you?”

“I’ll do more than watch your back, Sime.”

“I didn’t mean stare at my ass.”

“Neither did I,” the redhead laughed and flung out his left hand. A stream of pink bolts flew from his hand at one of the warriors. The pink darts slammed into his chest and face and the swordsman went down in a heap. “But it’s a nice one, so don’t get it cut up, would you?”

“Um… yeah,” she said, the mage’s sheer power again knocking her off her game. 

Taking a deep breath, her hand tight on her sword, she burst from cover, running low along the crates. No battle cry for her. Why advertise her presence and invite someone to stick her with a pointy bit? No, that’s what she was going to do to them.

Rounding a crate, she paused to evaluate. You didn’t live long just running forward like some armor plated or leather underpants wearing muscle brain. Eyes narrowed, she picked her target, the wide back of a shaggy haired half-orc in a rough spun shirt who was hacking at Mook with an oversized axe. He looked like the perfect target, big and slow. With all sorts of back to drive the point into.

Nodding, she flashed forward, sword ready to strike. She closed the open space quickly and quietly, the big thug too busy trying to chop up Mook to watch his back. 

Fool. 

A small smile on her face, she reared back and lunged forward, aiming the point for just under the ribs like she’d been taught.

Her arm drove forward in one smooth, fluid movement. 

Her aim true.

Time slowed. The man, at the last moment, realized some sort of danger. He straightened reflexively, only making her work easier. The light and fire glinted off her blade as it drove home. 

Cloth parted like air. 

Then with an ankle-twisting wrench, her blade and arm slid to the right. Unbalanced, her boot slipped on the slick cobbles, she stumbled forward, her blade instead of driving through flesh skittering across metal. Rough spun wool gave way to reveal gleaming mail. 

She’d made the cardinal sin and overcommitted. Desperately, she scrambled to regain her footing on blood-slicked cobbles as the huge man whirled on her. Eyes gleaming through heavy, greenish brows, he hefted that huge axe and laughed unpleasantly. “Nice try little girl, but Garras has tough skin. Little girl doesn’t. Good bye, little girl!”

Mesmerized, she watched the axe blade hurtle downwards in slow motion. She tried to bring her sword up to block the blow, but even as her muscles moved to do so, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She wouldn’t be strong enough.

The edge arced towards her face. As she watched it, all she could think about was how this was a shamefully stupid way to die. 

A flash of silver streaked over her head and struck the axe. As the blade turned away, her reflexes kicked in, throwing her to the other side before her mind even engaged. As she tumbled, a second blade slashed through the air, catching Garras across the stomach. While his ‘hard skin’ had turned aside her strike, he wasn’t so lucky this time. Red sprayed from his stomach and the half orc screamed in pain.

Not for long.

The first blade slashed out again, catching the half orc tough across the throat and sending his decidedly ugly head arcing off.

Picking herself up, she watched the Lord Corthala flick the blood from his katanas as Garras’s headless body crashed to the cobbles. 

She’d never seen him. Or heard him. She’d like to think that’s because she’d been so focused on her target, but a nagging sensation told her that wasn’t case. Grimacing, she said, “Thank… thank you. I thought I was dead for certain.”

He nodded slightly in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome.”

“The roof?”

“Taken care of.” 

The dark skinned man really was economical with his words. Swallowing and thankful that it was dark enough to hide any blushing, she nodded forward. “We should help Mook and Aleria.”

“Indeed. Follow me and watch your footing. Blood makes cobbles slippery.”

“Right. Kinda new at this.”

“Watch your footing and you will change that.”

“You know, I’d rather avoid this sort of thing altogether. But I’m getting the feeling I better learn quick.” She shifted her grip on her sword.

“A good idea.” 

With a nod, the nobleman leapt to the fray, charging the woman trying to flank Aleria. Swallowing hard, she followed suit, going after a tall man hammering at Mook’s flank. 

Mook needed her help and she couldn’t let her down.


	6. Dances with Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note - this chapter does include some graphic violence and violent imagery. Please be aware.

**Chapter 6**

_Dances with Devils  
_

* * *

The fight swirled around Sime like a deep desert sandstorm, the kind that swallowed cities whole. It raged madly, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. Her ears rang from the clash of steel and from the screams. Her nose rebelled from the terrible smells of blood and death all mingling with the usual rotten smell of the docks. Lights flashed and colors scintillated as fires caught and magic slashed through the air. She tried to process it, tried to understand it but her mind flatly refused to try to bring order to this hellish madness. She followed her lone guidepost, the Lord Corthala, deeper into the maelstrom. It threatened to consume her whole, but she had to go. 

Mook needed her. She couldn’t afford to lose her.

To her left a barrel exploded with a foul smelling burst of nearly colorless flame. Bits of wood and what looked like flash cooked eel bounced off the cobbles, swallowing her in a dank cloud of foulness. Blinded, she stumbled into a broken pile of crates. Pulled up short, her mind’s eye revealed what her eyes could not.

No one could see her. Even in this mad free-for-all, she was momentarily all alone. Hidden by the stinking cloud of burning wood and rotten eel. Between choking back her gorge and trying to grope forward, her mind screamed at the opportunity. Instead of stupid heroism, she could be smart. She knew this ground. There was an alley just a few feet away. She could duck into it, find a drain pipe, get to a roof and escape.

Escape. Find safety. Lay low until all this madness ended.

Sime looked left. The alley entrance beckoned. Nothing was between her and freedom. 

She tore her eyes away. Safety might be that way, the price would be Mook. A price she could not afford. So swallowing bile and fear, she tightened her grip and burst out of cover in the direction that Lord Corthala had gone.

She burst out right into another wave of reinforcements.

She didn’t even hear the yelp of surprise from the closest of them, a tall, thickly built woman clad in leather and carrying a notched axe. The woman cursed and hacked wildly. Sime ducked under the swing, slipping inside her guard. A wave of stench slapped her in the face, a horrible, cloying mixture of cheap sandalwood perfume trying to mask the reek of unwashed skin and sweat-fouled clothing. She’d rather have smelt the burning eels again. She lashed out, diving her sword right under the woman’s arm. The steely tang of blood joined the stench and Sime laughed. Not from enjoyment or excitement but the sheer shock that somehow, in the middle of a fight for her life, she still had the mental ability to rail against some murderous bitch’s poor hygiene.

The laughter turned into a scream as a line of fire exploded along her left arm, flowing from elbow to tricep. Yelping with shock and pain, she stared dumbfounded at her arm. A cut ran through the softer part of the armor, just inside the outer boiled plates. Blood, her _blood,_ drained out of it. Her shirt and armor darkened as the blood spread. 

Something cut her. Cut her deeply. 

Out of pure reflex, she twisted away, only realizing halfway through the roll that she’d dodged a cut from a wicked looking scimitar aimed at where her neck had been just a moment before. Fear and shock from nearly dying stupidly _again_ poured strength into her frame. The snarling half-elf who nearly decapitated her lunged forward and hacked at her again, but this time she was ready and she swung her sword up and deflected it away.

The force of the blow sent silent fire racing through her arm. Arm numb from the blow, she ducked left to avoid the backswing. He threw so much strength into it that she felt the breath of it against her face. That same strength carried the half elf forward and past her, exposing his side. Fingers still jangling from the blow, she gritted her teeth and drove her blade into his exposed side as he passed her by.

The point slid through a seam in his armor like a knife through silk. A gush of blood, hot and coppery, spilled over the hilt onto her hand. Eyes wide with shock, the half-elf turned toward her. Mouth a rictus of pain, he raised his scimitar to bring it down on her head. She tried to break free, but her sword stuck fast to his side, the wound in his chest somehow closing over the steel like a vice. Blade hurtling towards her head, she did the only thing she could think of; she twisted the hilts with all her might.

Things _crackled_.

Her sword pulled free.

Another new and terrible smell washed over her, one she knew would haunt her the rest of her days.

The half-elf straightened with a soft, terrible cough. He wobbled, his brilliant blue eyes fixing on hers, so wide with shock she could see the whites all around the iris. He opened his mouth as if to say something as his scimitar fell from now nerveless fingers. Then, with a soft, bloody cough, he collapsed, unmoving to the cobbles.

Coldness flooded Sime, ripping into her core with a chill deeper and more heartless than that of a clear, desert night. As the cold twisted her bones, she longed for the heat of battle others had talked of. Instead, all she had was the same blood-freezing chill from an alley scuffled turned deadly, the same sickening smell of blood and fear. 

This was insane. Everything was madness. A maelstrom that had swallowed her whole.

She _felt_ someone coming up behind her. Blindly, she spun, blade slashing out. Steel met steel and a very familiar voice cried out, “Sime, lass! It’s me, Mook!”

Sime blinked hard, her reeling mind taking the momentary shock to seize control of her senses again. Her vision cleared and Mook’s face swam into focus, like fog parting before the sun. Mook was there. Right there. Blood spattered, short hair a sweaty mess, but it was _her._

Alive. 

Thank the gods. 

“Mook! You alright?”

“So far,” she crooked a wry grin. “Now just try to avoid poking holes in me, okay?”

“Gotcha,” she said cringing.

“First battles are always crazy. This one’s a real winner. The arm okay?” she asked, sparing her a glance and repositioning herself to meet any charges.

“A little too slow,” she said, flexing her wounded arm. “But I’ll live.”

Mook fished out a length of cloth and wrapped it around her arm. Sime grabbed the other end and the two of them tied it off with a savage jerk. 

“My little one, surviving battle is what it’s all about. Glory’s for the others. Just make it through.”

“That’s my plan, Mook,” she said, grinning back before making a defensive half turn, looking for the press of attackers that she’d charged into but seeing no one. .

“Mine too. Looks like it worked too. Think we broke ‘em!”

Sime studied the battlefield for the first time since she charged into the thick of it. Firelight illuminated the workyard and surroundings, crates and barrels and even an outbuilding burning from shattered lamps and the wizard’s magic. In that eerie light, it seemed like Mook was right. At least a dozen bodies lay crumpled about. That central knot of thugs pressing Mook were gone. Jaheira was leading a countercharge in one corner. Lord Anomen seemed to have beaten or driven off the harridan assaulting him and had linked up with Keldorn to start sweeping up the other side. No one seemed to be charging right at her, trying to cut her to ribbons.

“You’re right! We’re winning! We’re going to hold the warehouse!”

Mook clapped Sime on the back. “Not a bad way to finish off your first battle, eh Sime? A victory.”

“Perhaps a victory, but one you will not live to savor, Mook,” a low voice hissed from behind them. Both spun on their heels to face the same grey faced man who started the whole fracas. Somehow he’d managed to sneak up on both of them, a seeming impossible task except that he’d managed it. He smiled, showing long fangs. “Your pet knights might have saved your warehouse, but it was not the only target. You are the Shadowmaster’s strong right arm. We mean to deprive him of it.”

“Hell you are!” Mook lunged forward, slashing at his face.

The man ducked the blade and grabbed her wrist. Mook screamed as he twisted his hand, bending her wrist back and spilling her sword to the ground. “Now, don’t struggle, it will only prolong the suffering.”

“Mook!” Sime screamed, lunging forward. The grey faced man easily avoided her strike while never loosing Mook. 

“Foolish child,” he hissed as he backhanded her as negligently as one might swat a fly. 

The blow lifted her off her feet and sent her crashing to the pavement. Her sword clattered to the cobbles and her vision swam. Darkness pulled at her for a long, treacherous moment. She bit her lip, shook her head and blinked away the stars. Her vision started to clear, enough so to see the grey man twist Mook’s arm cruelly, bending her over. Mook yelped and her knees buckled.

“Ahh, Mook, it is unfortunate you are so loyal. My mistress prizes talent, and wished to have you come to us willingly. No matter, you will still serve.”

“Hells I will, you bastard,” she cursed, kicking at him, still fighting. 

Sime blinked again, pushing down the vertigo and nausea. Her body started to respond to her and she started to push herself up. As she did, she met Mook’s eyes. Pain flared brightly through them, but they also begged her to run. To leave her and save herself.

“Oh, but you will, my sweet Mook,” the grey man hissed. He reached down and grabbed the collar of Mook’s armor, ripping the leather open like it was paper. Grabbing the loose leather, he hauled her upright. “You will. But only as a slave. A pity, but acceptable.”

Turning away from Sime, he bit her, fangs closing over her neck. A scream filled the air. Sime would never be sure it if was Mook’s or hers. Or both.

Something inside Sime snapped. Mook was the closest thing she had to family. She’d taken care of her, raised her when she could have just kicked her to gutter. No grey faced, fanged bastard was going to take her away from her. Not while she still had an ounce of strength left in her. Growling, she snatched up her sword and sprinted across the cobbled yard. Despite the rage, she ran silently and swiftly, blade held low. 

The man did not move.

She exploded upwards, driving all the power of her frame through the point of her sword. She rammed it into his back, driving it up under his rib cage all the way to the hilt. 

The man straightened like a shot, arms flying wide. 

Mook slipped from his grip.

Sime wrapped her other hand around the hilt.

“Die you bastard!” she screamed as she threw her whole weight into twisting the blade. 

The grey man twisted like a snake, whipping his hips around so quickly that he yanked the hilt right out of Sime’s hands. Eyes burning with baleful red fire, he reached backwards and yanked the sword out of his back. Spinning it in his hand as if it were a child’s toy, he held it aloft, revealing the steel unstained. Disdainfully, he tossed it back at her, the blade arriving with such force that it drove point first into the cobbles.

Sime stared at the blade thunderstruck. She’d driven it into his chest and yet the blade showed not a trace of blood.

She reached for the hilt but a hand caught her under the jaw. With a single jerk, she found herself hauled up into the air, so high her feet dangled above the ground. The grey man smiled, no sneered, and laughed.

“But I already have. And your little toy sword isn’t going to stop me.”

He tightened his grip, forcing her to look at him face to face. Despite the grey pallor, his face was handsome enough. Clean lines, square jaw and strong, aquiline nose. Nothing remarkable. Nothing except those eyes. As dull and grey as his skin was, they glowed with bright inner fire. She wanted to look away, to tear herself away from them but the beauty there was so terrible she could not. She beat at his arm, kicked at his stomach but she could not tear herself away from those eyes.

Those beautiful, terrible, wondrous eyes. They burned so bright they even warmed the icy grip around her throat. The cold fingers at her chest. They pressed deeply into her mind. Into her soul.

He laughed, the warm, coppery scent of blood - of _Mook’s _blood - washing over her. She tried to retch, to turn away but she could not tear herself away from those eyes. They promised how glorious that smell was, how much she would crave it. “You are a pretty little thing. Such beauty can forgive much, such spirit makes the taste so much sweeter. I’d meant to take but one slave, but now, I think I’ll take two. And with you, little one, I will enjoy breaking you. I will take my time teaching you the folly of striking me with such a paltry weapon.”

“Then let us try this one, fiend!”

Everything exploded in a flash searing white gold. The light blinded her, burning away not just her vision but every other sense in one brilliant moment. The terrible pressure around her mind and her throat vanished. She fell to the pavers, collapsing to her knees and gasping for breath. A thin, high keen shattered the air, piercing deep into her skull. She clasped her hands to her ears, trying to block it out but it sounded as loud inside her head as outside. She shuddered, the sheer force threatening to take her under.

As quickly as it began, it vanished.

Breathing hard, eyes streaming, she looked up. A glowing figure knelt before her. Silver lined red flames played across her form, caressing every inch of her with gentle divine fire. A bar of solid, living fire burned in one hand while the other hand closed over her shoulder. The figure’s hand flowed with the warmth of hot coffee and fuzzy blankets, burning away the icy cold still ringing her jaw and throat. As the warmth suffused her, she turned her head up to face to look into the face of this vision. Two brilliant emeralds shone from a face that belonged carved on a temple façade, the living image of a divine creature from a storybook.

She swallowed hard and screwed her eyes shut, no longer able to bear the silver flames. The light faded and she slowly opened her eyes again. Instead of some creature from some celestial plane knelt something far more reassuringly human. From underneath a red and gold helmet peered a weary, sweat stained face. Bright green eyes studied hers and a hand shook her. “Sime? Sime, are you alright?”

“Lady Aleria?” she asked, head swimming. Flames danced behind the knight, backlighting her brightly against the dark. Her massive, silver sword gleamed in the firelight. Visions began to make sense. 

“Yes Sime.”

“The … man?

“The vampire found my blade less than to his liking. Thankfully, he decided to gloat long enough for me to get here. Are you all right? He did not bite you?”

Sime clutched at her throat. “No… no,” she said softly. “But he would have. I couldn’t fight…”

The hand tightened on her shoulder. “One of the vampire’s most dangerous power is to mesmerize their victims.”

The word victim rang with the deafening cacophony of her homeland’s tower bells in her head. “Mook? Mook! He bit Mook!”

She twisted out of the knight’s grip and scrabbled across the pavement to where Mook had fallen. Mook’s face was grey and ashen, her lips near purple. A spider’s web of black veins spread from the ugly red wound on her throat. Despite the ghastly wound, only a slight trickle of blood oozed from it with each rasping breath. “Mook!” she screamed, wrapping her arms around her chill form.

With the soft scraping of her armor on the rough cobbles, Aleria knelt next to her. “I will do what I can…” she said, a tremor in her voice betraying a worrying lack of confidence.

“Please! Please! You have to!” she cried, clutching to Mook like a lifeline.

Aleria nodded and reached out; gently pressing her hands to Mook’s wounded neck. She began to chant in a low, soft tongue, her eyes closing. Clutching Mook's tightly, she watched lines of strain crease Aleria’s face, highlighting the hollows under her eyes and the usually near invisible long, shallow scar on her cheek. As she prayed, the knight looked decades older, careworn and tired, but also so very vital and alive. She couldn't understand it, and before she could think more on it, the chant reached its crescendo. 

She'd seen healing before, but not like this. A soft blue glow spread from Aleria’s hands into Mook’s body. It coursed over Mook's skin like living fire, setting her own skin tingling as it flowed around her arms. The fire chased the black veins down her face and neck and color blossomed on Mook’s cheeks. Her body stiffened and her eyes snapped open, their piercing blue now masked with a thick, milky veil. She gasped wordlessly before slumping back into Sime’s arms.

Aleria’s bowed head raised slowly. She sighed softly, the usually bright green fire behind her eyes banked. “I am sorry Sime. This wound… this wound is beyond the powers gifted to me.”

“That can’t be!” she cursed, sobbing. “You have to do something! That’s what you do!” The black veins started to spread again. They claimed Mook’s whole left cheek, leaching the color from her face. Her breathing slowed and her eyes fluttered open, irises milky. She gasped wordlessly, her hands only working spastically. Sime gathered Mook into her arms, gently stroking her dirty, sweaty hair. “You're supposed to be some sort of hero... you're supposed to help. And you can't...” She tore her eyes away from Mook for a moment to glare at Aleria, eyes stinging from the tears. “And since you're no good, since you're useless... you can at least leave us alone.”

“I am sorry Sime, if it were within my power...” Aleria's voice trailed off.

“I get it. You're sorry,” she hissed, her voice cracking. “Now leave us be. Leave us in peace.”

“It is not within my power... but perhaps...” A hand closed over Sime's shoulder. “Anomen! Anomen! I need you!”

The ring of mailed boots hurrying over cobbles filled her ears as she looked up at Aleria, hope trickling back. The knight had an idea. Aleria had an idea.

“Hang on Mook, please,” she whispered. “Help is coming.”

A metallic crunch signaled the arrival of Lord Anomen, as he knelt down beside them. “Yes, my Lady?” he asked, still sounding deferential and proper despite the exhaustion evident from his heavy breathing.

“Anomen,” Aleria said quickly. “Has Helm granted with you any prayers of restoration today?”

Lord Anomen nodded quickly, leaning in towards Aleria. “The Watcher has so gifted me. Did one of those foul creatures bite you?”

“Nothing more than a few scratches, Anomen. I am well. It is Mook. She was bitten. I tried to stop the spread of their cancer, but I have not the grace. You do.”

“For Mook, my Lady?” he sputtered. “This is no mean prayer to dole out for thieves and brigands.” 

No different. No different at all. They might wear fancy metal armor and prance around in parades, do things for 'honor' and 'glory' instead of just good business, but they weren't an ounce different than any of her guildmates. Unless there was something in it for them, most would walk right past you in the gutter. Some probably would make sure you didn't get up. Even through blurry eyes, she could see on _Lord_ Anomen's face that same thought. Same sentiment.

Still, she still had to try. She had to crack that indifference. There had to be something she could offer, something he'd want that she could trade for Mook. She had to try.

Swallowing hard, one arm tight around Mook's body, she reached out for Lord Anomen’s hand. To his credit, he didn't pull back and lurch away as if she was some sort of leper. But he still looked discomfited. Sniffling just once, she fell back on the training of her youth. “Please,” she pleaded, modulating her voice plaintively. “Please, if you can help her, please do. She's... she's all I have in this world. And if you help her, if you help her all I have is yours. Name it, whatever it is, _please_ just help her.”

Lord Anomen actually met her eyes and miraculously that hard sneer cracked. His lips drew back and his shoulders tensed. Indecision raged across his face as he looked from her to Mook to Aleria.

“Please Anomen, help her. Undeath is no fate for anyone, no matter what their sins.”

“Please. Please,” she begged, feeling the warmth steal out of Mook. Her eyes stung as tears started to roll down her cheeks. She didn't care. She was losing her. She couldn't lose her. So what if he saw her cry. Stroking her cheek, she looked away from the knight and into Mook's graying face. “She's getting cold. Oh gods, please.”

Lord Anomen sighed so heavily his armor created. “I... I will help her if the Watcher will so allow.”

Her head snapped up, staring incredulously at the Helmite. He said he would help. Mook, Mook might make it! “Thank you! Thank you!” she gasped.

“Do not thank me yet, Sime. I will make the attempt and the Watcher will judge. Please, lay her flat on the ground so that I may work.”

Gently she laid Mook down on the hard cobbles, folding Mook's hands over her chest before moving back to give the Helmite priest room. Lord Anomen moved to Mook's right side, removing his helm and setting it down across from him. His hair was matted and blood and sweat mingled on his left cheek where something had struck him. He twisted his neck back and forth and slipped his left hand out of his gauntlet to smooth back his hair. As he bowed his head, the last of that hard, sneering mask he wore like armor melted away, his exhaustion and something else shining through. Taking a deep, slow breath, he swallowed hard and laid his gauntleted hands one on top of the other in the center of Mook's chest.

He began to chant, low and rhythmic. His voice, denuded of the harshness and disdain that usually colored it, was melodic. Either he had formal training, which seemed odd for the joyless Helmites, or he had a natural singing gift. Accompanied by the right instrument, his voice would be beautiful. She found the thought odd for the moment, but nonetheless true. 

His brow knitted and sweat beaded on his skin. Jaw tightening and shoulders stiffening, he chanted faster and louder. The sweat began to pour down his face, dripping off his nose and beard as he leaned in further and closer. A gold white flare of light burst from his gauntleted hands, swallowing both Lord Anomen and Mook in its corona. Sime fell back and covered her eyes, the light blinding, piercing. It was like ten thousand eyes staring at her at once, peering through every ounce of her being.

As quickly as it came, it was gone, the heavy cloak of night swallowing them all up.

Lord Anomen rocked back onto his heels, breathing hard. He reached out to steady himself, swaying drunkenly, but before he could fall, Aleria caught him and steadied him. Still feeling the shock of that light, Sime was silent as Aleria asked, “Was your prayer granted?”

“Yes,” Lord Anomen replied breathlessly. “The Watcher granted the favor. She will heal, but she will be weak for some time.” Chest heaving, he turned towards Sime woozily. “She will need bed rest and nourishing food. The flesh nearly failed and will need help in recovering.”

“As will you my friend,” Aleria said, wrapping her arms around the Helmite's chest and helping him to his feet. “Keldorn! I need your assistance here!” she shouted over her shoulder as she propped him up.

“You will take care of her?” Aleria asked.

“Yes! Thank you! Thank you so much, both of you!” she gushed, rushing to Mook's side. The paleness in her face was gone and the black veins banished. The horrible red and black wound at her shoulder had vanished, leaving nothing but an angry red welt. Marveling openly, she wrapped her arms around Mook, hugging her tightly, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

She heard both Aleria and Lord Anomen say something, but her attention was only on Mook. Mook was going to live. Mook was going to make it.

“Oof. Lass, you're squeezing the life out of me,” A very familiar if painfully soft voice said. 

She loosened her grip around her Mook. Slightly. “Sorry... sorry about that, Mook.” She kissed her forehead, tears dripping down on her.

“Now I know how the coffee pot feels when I scour it with my copper brush,” she moaned softly. She tried to sit up, but slumped back into Sime's lap. “What in the Nine Hells just happened?”

“You just had your life saved by a Helmite priest.”

“You mean that arrogant pimple of a man? The one whose codpiece is three sizes too small?”

“Aye,” she said, grinning and sniffling. “You owe him... I owe him a great debt for bringing you back to me.”

“Vampires, heroes and being saved by Helmites,” Mook said, shaking her head softly. 

“Aye.”

“Way too old for this.”


	7. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is won but now Sime has to reckon with its aftermath.

**Chapter 7**

_Reflections_

Wrapped in a tight ball of warm blankets and tired muscles, Sime kept watch over Mook from the overstuffed armchair dominating the corner of the old thief’s favorite bedroom. The chair might be old and the fabric faded, but the cushions were luxuriously stuffed and the fabric soft as fresh woven wool. She’d slept in it countless times, especially as a young woman on the outs with some new crew who thought a pretty face and a bright smile meant liberties could be attempted. She knew this chair, loved this chair and right now, this chair was harder than the broken cobbles on Tanner Street.

Despite the aches and pains, she refused to surrender her vigil over the recovering Mook. Hour after hour, she’d watched the gentle rise and fall of Mook’s chest as she slept. She told herself she kept watch to protect her. She told herself that she was the only person she could trust with Mook’s life.

She knew she was selling herself a line of bullshit. A complete self delusion, the kind that men like Bayle traded in. Proof once again that no one could fool someone as much as someone desperate to believe.

Was she really Mook’s protector? One tired, strung out woman who barely avoided having various bits removed by a horde of mercs and monsters from fireside tales was not going to be the difference if the cordon set up by the remaining members of Mook’s crew failed. Mask take her, her nerves were shredded enough she was more liability than asset at this point.

All her reasons were excuses. Veils for the truth. That simple truth being she needed Mook to be okay like she needed her next breath of air. After nearly losing her, seeing her on the brink of something… something even worse than death, she needed to be there when she woke up. She needed the security of Mook being alright. She needed that reassurance in this world gone suddenly and deeply mad.

Simply, without Mook there was no way a jumped up runaway harem girl could handle a world now full of vampires and magic and glowing swords and hope to survive it.

She needed Mook, but Mook was still asleep, still recovering. Deep lines etched the older woman’s too pale face but at least the black veins and pain from last night were gone. She lived, thank all the gods. She was going to get better, a gift she owed to two Order knights, to Aleria of Candlekeep and even more so, Anomen Delryn.

Debts she knew, they were a currency better than silver in her realm. But to have her ledger so heavily tilted to the red, and that the markers were owned by two Order knights deeply unsettled her. They traded in far different coin, walking in a world of bright light and clear lines. How she would repay that debt troubled her but it was a debt she had to pay. She would pay. Without them, Mook would be… gone. Forever.

Smiling softly at Mook and resting her chin on her hand, she wrestled with her debt and their act, trying to bring sense to the seeming senseless. She wanted to argue that the act had been one of cold calculation. Mook was senior to the Organization, close to the Shadowmaster. Saving her would incur both good will and debts of gratitude that could be exploited to accomplish their goals. To complete their mission. Such a reason was simple and reasonable yet deep in her exhausted mind she knew it was entirely untrue. There had been no grand calculation, no clever strategy. Self-honesty compelled a proper analysis. Aleria and Anomen saved Mook because they believed it was the right thing to do.

More accurately, at least Aleria had. She could have left Mook to her fate, done nothing or offered some platitudes. Instead she helped a woman who might have been or could still be an enemy. Sime recognized the truth of that even if she couldn’t understand it, not fully. It just didn’t exactly seem right.

At least Delryn made more sense. She would not deny that he came around to believing it was the right thing to do. She knew enough basic theology to know Helm would deny any prayer not heartfelt. But his conversion was less noble than his act. He would have been happy to stay in his ‘Bastion of Righteousness’ or whatever he called his happy place. He was talked into opening his eyes for a reward. For Aleria’s approval and for her own… rather rash promises. Scratching the back of her head, she grimaced. She’d been desperate and promised the world. Now she had to deliver. She wondered what he’d demand in payment.

If he was anything like his father, it might be decidedly unpleasant. But in all honesty, a few hours of unpleasantness was worth Mook’s life. Maybe it was sentimental and foolish, but she loved Mook. Mook took care of her when she was little, protected her. How could she do less?

A loud and insistent knock at the door thankfully cut off that line of thought. Uncurling from her chair, she tossed off the blanket and wrapped her hand around her crossbow's handle. Readying it but not raising it, she shifted to the partial cover of the overstuffed chair and called out somewhat crankily, “Hey! Mook's not supposed to be disturbed.”

The door opened and Isin, one of Mook's most trusted lieutenants, stuck his head in. “I know. But the Shadowmaster's here.”

“Oh,” Sime gasped, uncocking the hand crossbow and slipping it back into its holster. She assessed the wreck of her appearance and frowned stonily. She refused the offer of a hot bath when she returned and now she seriously regretted the mawkish sentimentality of her vigil. With only a few seconds to try and appear presentable, she stood and smoothed armor, buffing the worst of the soot with the edge of the blanket. With a loose thong, she savagely tied back the stinking, sweaty, soot-caked mess that had once been her hair. Finally, she wiped her face clean with another blanket edge. One glance at the mirror spoke volumes of her failure to look anything but a total wreck, but it would have to do. With more confidence than she felt, she said, “Well, of course, we shouldn't keep the Shadowmaster waiting.”

Isin nodded and opened the door, ushering Aran Linvail, the Shadowmaster, into the room. As per his reputation, the man was impeccably dressed, from his soft velvet vest to the spotless suede boots to the elegant black belt with the equally elegant sword hanging from it. As he turned his head and nodded in greeting, Sime’s confidence crumbled. The smooth, softness of his boots only underscored the mess attached to her feet, boots still stained with muck and blood and worse. His perfectly coiffed hair mocked the ruin of tangles attached to her head. Appearing before the Shadowmaster looking more like one of the street cutpurses than a top intelligence agent slid a knife into her belly and her cursed vanity twisted it cruelly, nearly dropping her to the floor.

The Shadowmaster nodded in simple greeting as if they were simply two casual acquaintances meeting on the street. “Good morning Sime.”

“Good morning Shadowmaster,” Sime replied as brightly as she could.

His head tilted slightly to the side as his eyes wandered to the bed and its sleeping occupant. “She is resting and will make a full recovery?”

“Yes sir.” Sime said straightening and studying the Shadowmaster's face. There was the slightest hint of softness around the eyes, of sadness? Did they have something? Had there been something? Mook always seemed rather familiar in referring to the Shadowmaster, but she'd assumed it was the intimacy of the seniority, not intimacy of another sort. There was a secret she’d have to try and pry that out of Mook. Not that it would be easy with Mook being notoriously tight lipped about her past. “The healers say she'll be weak for a while but will make a full recovery in a few days.”

“Excellent. Mook is too valuable to our operations to lose,” The Shadowmaster said, a hardness in his voice betraying the intensity of his feelings. Interesting. As she filed that tidbit away, the Shadowmaster ran his pale blue eyes up and down her form. “A rough night, I see.”

“Yes sir. We were attacked by a large force, including...” She straightened a little further, the insanity of the situation causing her to tense. “Vampires, sir. If you hadn't secured Aleria and her compatriots’ aid...”

“Mook and her people would be dead, the warehouse taken and the core of our dock operations assaulted,” the Shadowmaster finished with the same emotion one might read a barber’s fees.

“More than likely, sir.”

“Thankfully, that did not happen. I prefer to not spend my evenings fighting off mercenaries and the undead. It's very tiring.” The Shadowmaster smiled thinly at his own joke. “Instead, thanks to Aleria's company, Mook's people and your own efforts, not only did that not happen but the shipment made it in safely.”

“Thank you sir,” Sime replied.

“I understand that Mook was wounded in the affray, but Aleria and her companions did not further elaborate on the cause or nature of her wounds. None of her remaining people could provide much detail either. I was hoping perhaps you could provide further detail?”

There was nothing about that question that was a request. It was a very polite demand for information, one she did not require her to see the almost minute tightening of his eyes or the subtle hardening of their icy blue depths to understand. However, those tiny tells combined with the fact that Aleria and her company _hadn't_ mentioned how far they'd gone to save Mook were fascinating. They'd passed up an excellent change to curry favor and work the relationship, especially interesting considering the newly discovered depth of the attachment between Aran Linvail and Mook.

This new information complicated what normally would be a simple request from a superior for information. She had to deliver the report. The question was how much. Hide the full extent of what she knew, choosing not to share what Aleria and her company had done? Of course, they might have told him all and this could be a test of both capability and fidelity. A test to see if she was still trustworthy and would actually reveal if she’d been compromised. Better to err on the side of full disclosure as there was little reason to _not_ do so. After all, an unreliable intelligence asset was worse than a compromised one.

Tugging at the hem of her cuirass, she nodded in the affirmative. “One of the leaders of the assault attacked Mook. He bit her and did... something to her. I do not know what, but apparently there is something to the danger of vampire bites. Before it could finish, Lady Aleria cut the thing down. Mook was weakened... dying.” She heard her voice quiver as the memories came flooding back. Mook, so cold, so weak. The black veins and the white eyes. “She and Sir Anomen saved her.”

“How?”

“I...” She grimaced. “I am not entirely sure. Apparently it involved divine power from their respective gods, but I am no practical theologian, sir.”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “Likely a Restoration prayer of some sort. Delryn must be held in some respect by Helm.” He smiled. “This does not surprise me. Helmites long ago cornered the market on humorless and Cor's son seems the perfect model.” He studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers. “Interesting. Your thoughts on why?”

She knew she would have to field this question as soon as she told him the truth. However, she didn't much relish giving the answer. Obligation was something she hated, having others know it even more so. Especially when such an obligation demonstrated weakness and vulnerability. “Because sir, I asked them to.”

“I see. At what cost?”

“The cost will be borne entirely by myself sir. The Guild has no liabilities or concerns in it.”

“As the Guildmaster,” he said very precisely, his face stern. “I make those determinations. Especially when the agent in question works as closely with me as you do.”

She swallowed hard. “The obligation is entirely … _personal_, sir.”

One well sculpted eyebrow arched marginally and the sternness modulated slightly. “I see. I would suggest discharging any such _personal_ obligations quickly. I do not want them interfering with our operations, Sime.”

“Of course, sir,” she said with a hurried nod.

“And speaking of interference with our operations, I do not like having to come to one of my agents to get a report. Especially _after_ having dealt with the party in question. Knowing what they did could have been very valuable, but I was deprived of this information.”

She blanched and swallowed hard as the Shadowmaster pinned to her the spot with his eyes. “In fact, I find this failure rather galling, Sime. Darkshadow promised me great things from you, even if you were rather young and inexperienced.”

“I … I am sorry sir. It's just Mook … Mook, you see, she was hurt. I had to watch over her, make sure she was okay,” she stammered, the words pouring out of her like a broken cistern. “I... needed to make sure she was okay...”

The Shadowmaster held up a hand and her jaw snapped shut with a click. “I understand that Sime. I know how close you are to Mook, which is why I will make an exception _this_ time.”

She flushed brightly, anger and embarrassment warring in her. “I understand, sir.”

“Good,” he said with a nod. “We must all work to husband the Guild through such difficult times. Even more so than usual, we must remember that personal is not the same as important.”

The rebuke stung, but not as much as the look on his face as he said it. The mask slipped just enough to see how much he believed it. She did not know if he meant to show so much, to reveal the ruthless core of his being. Seeing it chilled her colder than a desert night, now knowing just how _practical _a man he was. He would do anything necessary to secure his power and his control of the guild. _Anything. _Nodding quickly and emphatically, she managed. “I'll … I'll remember that Shadowmaster.”

"It is Aran, Sime. We are colleagues.” The genteel smile had returned. “Now, I believe Darkshadow has need of you. Meet him in his office. And you need not worry about Mook, I will keep watch over her.”

“Than.. thank you, sir.”

“I would suggest a bath as well, before meeting with him. You know how fastidious he is.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He smiled and nodded in dismissal.

Without a further word, she headed for the door. As she pulled it open, she watched the Shadowmaster settle himself into one of the other chairs of the room. With the Shadowmaster watching over Mook, Mook would be safe.

The more pressing question was, was she?


	8. Assignments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheels are turning faster now for Sime as a new day breaks on Athkatla. But just because day has broken doesn't mean that darkness isn't in every corner...
> 
> And thanks for everyone's patience. This story is not dead and will be continuing hopefully a little more frequently now.

**Chapter 8**

_Assignments_

The early morning heat struck Sime like a hammer as she stepped out into the streets. Squinting in the sunlight, she weaved her way through the alleyways to Carter Street. From there, she joined the masses of carters and fishmongers on their way up from the docks into the city proper. She did her best to disappear into the crowd, but wary eyes and dark glares followed her where ever she went. Instead of the loud, boisterous catcalls and shouts from men and women she knew, she was met with grumbles and stony silence.

As she hauled up her hood and hunched her shoulders, she added another tick mark to how unstable her city had become. Even the morning workers, in the full, blasting rays of the sun were closing ranks. As she worked through the crowd she caught a few breaths of conversation around the ‘big fight on the pier’ and the ‘night fire’. Nothing more than a few snatches of words, no details, nothing actionable, but the way that they clammed up as soon as she wandered close spoke volumes too.

Time was running out.

She picked up the pace.

Ten minutes later, Sime sidestepped out of the main roads and into the lane that led to her primary, ‘official’ residence in one of the attached buildings to the Battered Ram, an inn that operated at the level just below respectable. She’d rented the topfloor of one of the store-buildings. It had external access, a lot of foot traffic and easy access to better than average food and drink for only a reasonable cost. Jeldin, the owner, took her coin without question about either its provenance or her business while running a generally clean establishment.

As she walked around the backside of the stables, a slim redhead sat openly at the foot of her external stair, making herself totally conspicuous as she idled away reading a book. She even sat sideways, turned towards the inn courtyard and leaving her back studiously to her favored alley approach.

Only through force of will did Sime not break her stride. The girl was Lena, one of the inns maids who had no interest in slaving her life away scrubbing floors or sheets or backs or really anything else. She approved as Lena possessed far too many brains to waste away as a maid. First she’d just been passing her tips on customers and business patterns first for a small cut. Then for her stories. Then for training. The relationship had blossomed into a mentorship with young Lena becoming a central part of her personal network and favored student. Much like Mook did for her when she was looking for a way out.

A bold move that, Lena leaving herself so totally out in the open. It was either a sign that she worried her employer might be jumpy and wanted to assure her things were well or it was the bait in a trap to be sprung on an unwary _former_ employer.

She palmed one of her throwing daggers. Lena’s mind was quick and razor sharp. She liked the girl. A lot. And she knew the feeling was mutual. However, business _was_ business and betrayal was the hottest market going.

“Lena,” she called out in greeting when she was still a safe few feet away.

“Sime. Hey…” A smile formed on the redhead’s lips then quickly collapsed. The girl bit her lip and furrowed her brow. “The fight down on the docks. You were in that.”

“I was.” Sime scrubbed her hand through her knotted hair. “How did you hear about it?

“Huge fight on the docks? Magic being thrown about? Rumors are everywhere.” Lena shook her head. “As soon as I heard about, I started digging…”

“Carefully I hope. These people are…”

“Who isn’t?” Lena waved hand dismissively.

“Lena.” She stepped closer and grabbed the young woman’s shoulder. “These people nearly _killed _me last night. To make a _point._”

Lena looked up. Looked at her face. And then really looked. Her eyes widened so far she could see white around them and her lips parted as that bright brain of hers started to process the depth of what she said. It warmed her heart to watch her piece it together and do so without completely freaking out.

Lean took a deep breath. “Big Yan was the broker. Rayn’s Riders and Bertie’s Bad Boys were two of the companies hired for the job.”

“Big Yan? How…”

“They found all three of their heads spiked on the door to Yan’s shop this morning.” Lena studied her carefully. “I assumed it was your people…”

“Not… as far as I know. But I’ve been out of the loop since last night. Mostly.”

“So…” Lena started to pale.

“Go back to the inn. Scrub some floors. Keep your head _down._”

“You’re going to need my help.”

“Lena. You not ending up with your throat torn out is going to be a big help to me.”

“But I’ve got contacts. The network…”

“Lena.” She took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to keep her safe without giving away any information that compromise the Guild or herself. Lena seemed sincere, but she’d been giving her acting lessons. She could be being played, the girl looking for an angle to flip her for a payday. She doubted it, but right now? Nothing was certain. “This is a time to keep out of sight. You don’t want to be a player on the board right now if you can help it. Pieces are getting _used up. _You don’t need to be one.”

Lena thought carefully for a few long seconds. “But if I hear anything that might be useful?”

Good gods, amateurs. “Notes. In the washing shed cubby. But you do _not_ go looking. Just what comes to the inn.”

“Okay. Okay. Fine.”

“Good.” She sighed. “I’m going to go take a bath.”

“You want me to wash… the mess?”

“Thanks. But I’ll be okay.”

Lena nodded and with a backwards glance and a tensing of her shoulders, marched off to the kitchen entrance of the inn. Once she disappeared beyond the door, Sime let out a breath and carefully replaced the throwing dagger into her bracer. Hopefully that would be enough to keep Lena safe… and reduce the number of knives that might come for her back.

She blew out a breath. After last night, she didn’t know if she was becoming paranoid or Toril really was out to get her. Considering that the latter could very well be in play, she ascended the external stair to her quarters with well-disguised caution. It was a trick, more of a knack, to be able to casually walk while checking every surface for traps and tripwires. She only brushed her foot on the sixth riser, the one she’d rigged to squeak murderously as a warning and reached the landing without incident.

She slipped her key from a waist pocket and turned her attention to the door. She was so very proud of her work here, done so skillfully she doubted the owner even realized she’d had the original replaced and shaped to look as poorly maintained and flimsy as the original. Where the old one couldn’t stop a well placed spitball, this one was thick enough to stop several crossbow bolts before even cracking. The lock, despite the battered tin faceplate, was of superior dwarven manufacture. She carefully studied both as she ‘fumbled’ with her keyring. No new scratches. The faceplate was exactly as askew as before. Even the hairs she slipped into the corners, bridging door and jam as a warning of entry were still in place.

Wait…

She slipped the key into the lock and leaned into the door. It appeared warped so one might naturally assume it’d need a little extra push. But as she did, she sniffed at the hair. It was almost perfect. Almost perfect. But there was no hint of sandalwood. No burst of scent.

It’d been replaced. Almost perfectly. If she wasn’t so on edge, so keyed up, so insanely caffeinated, she might have missed it.

She unholstered her hand crossbow. Fitted a shocking quarrel to the string. Turned the lock. All while trying to work out who would have gone to the trouble of finding her and making it appear they hadn’t. The list was not as long as one in her profession might expect. She was, in her humble opinion, quite good at not making messes in the first place. So it almost had to be someone internal.

The door swished open on perfectly oiled hinges, making only the tiniest whisper of sounds.

She stepped over the inviting welcome rug that covered an ankle trap. An unsprung ankle trap.

Turned. Leveled her crossbow at the only good seat in her home.

“Your report on last night please.”

Only through a supreme act of will backed by years of very physical reminders that a young lady does not open her mouth unless she wants something shoved in it did she keep her mouth from gawping open. It was no mean feat at all because sitting there in her overstuffed chair, flanked by his two ‘clerks’, sat a surprisingly well-coiffed and stylishly dressed Darkshadow. The master of the Guild’s intelligence gathering arms. Sitting in her private apartment and in her favorite chair.

Darkshadow was as notorious for his hate of theatrics as Bayle was for his affection for them. Darkshadow’s office in the bowels of the guildhall looked more like those of a rather prosperous scribe or accountant, not that of a spymaster with fingers in every pie from here to Tethyr. For as unpredictable as he could be in his operations and his planning, he was a creature of certain habits. Everything in its place and a place for everything, with him at the heart of all of those things. Now he was not there. No, he was sitting in her home. This was not an act of intimidation. It was not intended to frighten her.

It was necessary.

The menacing loom of several hungry and nude orcs would be less frightening than Rhuar Darkshadow, sitting in her favorite chair, regarding her coolly and levelly. Such a change in operational patterns meant nothing good for her. The only real question was she part of whatever this plan was or the object of said plan.

That she was still breathing boded well. Slightly.

His gaze never shifted from mild. His eyes never even flicked to the crossbow leveled at him. He simply leaned back and studied her as if she were another page in his ledger book. With the same calmness, she safed the trigger of her crossbow and slid it back into her thigh holster.

His face did not change but there was the slightest relaxation from his bodyguards. An icy blast of relief flowed down her spine, tempered with a small amount of joy. At least she’d registered as a viable threat.

As the room thawed a few degrees from middle of a Spine of the World blizzard, her mind started to kick back in. Started to process everything in front of her. Just how insane this operational change was. The signs of strain on that mild face, lines etching his cheeks and darkness circling his eyes. The tension in his voice. That he lifted his right hand and actually motioned for her to proceed.

Taking all of that in and adding that to her danger assessment, she nodded quickly and began her briefing. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she delved into the events of the previous evening, laying out all the critical components of the planning, the attack, the presence of the undead and Aleria and Anomen saving Mook's life. She kept it short and concise, focusing on the details she knew he wanted. Darkshadow listened attentively, asking follow up questions, probing for further information, different angles to fit the puzzle together. The tension in her spine grew as his questions increasingly focused on what operational knowledge had been given up and then some very incisive queries regarding her obligation to one Anomen Delryn of the Order of the Radiant Heart.

The thinness of the spymaster’s lips indicated his opinion of that, and if she read people so poorly as to miss that, the tone of his voice spoke volumes. “So, our security is breached in multiple arenas, as I feared. Our opponents possess critical information organization wide. It is well that the Shadowmaster solicited our new allies, as I have no doubt that without them, last night’s attack would have succeeded. And if my other suppositions are correct…” Darkshadow grimaced, his usually placid face tight with anger. “Of course, with their involvement, we now have further compromises. Not that the warehouse would not have had to been abandoned after the attack, but the Order now has significant intelligence on our general security operations.”

“Sir, if I may, they deduced the presence of the tunnel mainly on their own,” Sime hurriedly interjected. “And they saw nothing in regards to it.”

“Their capabilities in deduction do not ease my concerns, they in fact only exacerbate it,” Darkshadow said snappishly. He leaned in further, his eyes boring into her. “Especially considering one of my chief agents is now compromised by them.”

“Compromised?” she replied with as much calm as she could manage.

“Your obligation to Delryn gives them significant leverage over us and our department. While Mook is an exceptionally valuable asset and I am relieved that we retained the services of one of the Guild’s more cunning and _loyal_ members, I do lament the potential loss of another valuable asset.”

Sime swallowed hard. If Darkshadow truly believed her compromised, no longer loyal, life would become exceptionally dangerous. It could easily explain his presence here today. Few witnesses to the permanent resolution of her status. She should be afraid. Afraid of those eyes and the danger that lurked behind them.

That rational fear took a cosh to the back of the ear by a roaring anger. That she had done so much, put so much on the line for Mook and for the Guild and he would question her for that? She’d been on the front line. In the blood and terror. Somehow that wasn’t enough. Somehow an obligation to a brash and insecure lordling like Delryn could_ compromise her?_

She straightened and glared back. “I‘m compromised? For offering a trade of services with that petty lordling? You know what he’ll want and damn him, he’ll get that. If _that_ is enough to compromise someone, you might want to have Bayle and all his people liquidated.” She snorted derisively, her temper flaring brightly. “More likely he’ll be serving _me_ within the week. You know his family history, their weaknesses. Do you really think I can’t control him, wrap him around my finger and make him dance to _my_ tune? I was trained from birth by Jocana the Fair, the prize of Markan the Terrible. If you think some pathetic, overbred Amnian noble is a match for me, then to the Hells with you.” She tugged at the bottom of her jerkin. “Sir.”

Darkshadow sat back in her chair, his hand curved around his chin. He took a deep breath. “My apologies Sime. I had to test you. We are now beset by enemies, hounding us. Loyalties are fading, weakening and our strength is bleeding away. If I truly thought you disloyal, you would not have lived walking through your door.”

The surprise of an apology broke the storm raging in her heart, and now cut off from the heat the strength fled from her. Only will and pride kept her knees locked. “I understand sir.”

“Good. Very good.” He nodded, the gesture closing that file. “On to your next assignment. As you've likely deduced, we are still suffering defections among our numbers. These defections must stop. I have been stepping up our efforts to root out the defectors and to try to determine the location of the opposition.” He smiled thinly. “We have had a break in these efforts.”

“Yes?” she asked, anger stirring again inside her. These people had nearly cost her Mook and she wanted a piece of them.

“Indeed. We had a bit of luck. Rhinna.”

“A dust devil, that one. Fickle, blowing which ever way the wind goes and following heat like a whore follows coin.”

“An apt if… colorful description of her. More so than we suspected. Last night, she made the mistake of trying to recruit one of my agents. He brought her to me. With some … pointed... questioning, she revealed that the location of that meeting and a partial list of the attendees.”

“Excellent.” She smiled, showing all teeth. “I assume we will be out in force?”

“No.” Darkshadow replied, only a hint of a grimace illustrating how deep his distaste ran. He carefully rearranged his shirt cuffs before looking up. “Unfortunately. The trouble starts with the list of attendees. Jaylos and Caehan are at the heart of this conspiracy, apparently now eager to move on to richer business opportunities.”

“I see.” Sime frowned fiercely. Both were extremely senior. Both quite powerful. Both well connected inside the guild hierarchy. Any large scale gathering of force would get back to them. “So how are we dealing with the situation?”

“Our first priority is dealing with Rhinna’s other recruits. The ones she stayed behind to organize. We have made excellent progress on that front. We need to ensure that word of our success does not get back to Jaylos or Caehan. Once we’ve completed this task, we will address the meeting itself. That brings me to why I am here as you will be deeply involved in both of these tasks.”

“What are my orders?”

“Priority one. One of the women named by Rhinna escaped our net. If she is still free before the meeting, operational security will be compromised and we will lose this chance to extract one of the enemy organization's members and perhaps the location of our opposition.” He grimaced and knotted his fingers together. “We cannot afford to lose this chance. We cannot. So, I need you to run this woman down.”

“Why me?” she asked, eyebrow arching in surprise. She knew what Darkshadow was asking. She was not that kind of troubleshooter. He had specialists for that and now did not seem like the time to vary from that pattern. “Why not Argan or Diolo?”

“Because they are engaged. Because you are one of my best. Because I can trust you.” He leaned forward. “And because of one other critical quality. You know the quarry intimately.”

She swallowed hard, a cold pit forming in her stomach. “Who is it, sir?”

“An old partner of yours. Sareena. She has gone to ground, Sime and she needs to be found.”

“I... I see,” she said, swallowing hard as the pit yawned open under her feet.

“Good. We need her found by midday so we can prepare for the second part of your mission. Bring her in if you can. If not, she must be silenced.”

She nodded quickly, jerkily. Sareena was a friend, a good friend. Apparently a now very dangerous friend. “Silenced sir? Are we sure that is necessary? What if... what if she's not involved?”

“We are under siege, Sime,” Darkshadow said coldly. “We are bleeding strength and will every day. We have a chance to strike back, Sime, and I will not endanger that for anything. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir,” she said with calmness that she did not feel. “I understand and I will not fail you.”

He looked at her, his jaw taut and his eyes boring into her for a seeming eternity. Finally he nodded, and stood. “I know, Sime. I know.” He nodded toward the door. “Excellent security by the way.” He sniffed. “You used perfume to bind the trip hairs.” He stared at Keelan. “Do be more careful next time.” His gaze swung back to her. “Now, be about your duties. Report to me by midday and if you are successful, we will go over the second part of the plan.

The look left nothing to the imagination of what would happen if she were not successful.


	9. Seekings and Findings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sime has her mission - to find an old friend. The seeking will be easy but the finding...
> 
> Reader note: Some violence and gore ahead.
> 
> Update: 10/29/20 - After some exceptionally helpful comments from a good friend, this chapter underwent some heavy editing towards the end. I think it comes off tighter and zippier. Hope you'll give it a second viewing.

** Chapter 9 **

_ Seeking and Finding _

Finally alone, Sime stared longingly at the recently vacated chair. An overwhelming part of her longed for nothing more than to strip off her armor, curl up in that chair and wait for this all to be over. This was all too big, too much, too dangerous for her. The temptation burned bright enough that her knees wobbled from the strain. Exhaustion weighed in, adding its siren call. Sleep. Rest. Forget.

She refused those temptations. As delicious as sleep sounded, it would not be one she would enjoy waking from. If she woke at all.

Instead she stripped to the skin and set to work. She could not traipse through the city stinking of last night’s battle. She scrubbed herself down first and pulled on clean clothes, tossing the old into a basket to be dealt with later. The armor she would need so as she set some coffee to brew, she worked with a soft brush and oil to clean the worst of the battle from the new leather. It cleaned surprisingly easily. For all her admonishments to take care of the leather, the old elf obviously had anticipated the worst. Next went her weapons. Each checked in turn, carefully examined, cleaned and strapped back into place.

After a hurried breakfast of cheese, cold bacon and coffee, she wrapped a cloak of shapeless, dull brown around her shoulders and stepped back out the door, carefully re-engaging her traps. No doubt Darkshadow could get back in, but there was no reason to make it easier for anyone else. And she intended to return.

Once the job was done.

Blowing out a long, slow, deep breath, she turned her head towards the heart of the city. Towards the avenues that would lead her towards the Promenade. Towards where her old friend almost certainly hid.

\---@@@---

Sime entered the Promenade through the Coin Gate, pausing briefly to watch workmen hauling rubble out of the ruins of the northwest corner. The worst of the physical damage had been cleared for the Council of Six couldn’t bear the affront to one of Athkatla’s crown jewels. Still, the wound in the Promenade gaped wide, all fissures and sharp edges. Much like her city. Much like her life.

She’d been on one of the perimeter teams, watching for runners in case the main force flushed someone interesting out. They’d thought they were going after some new guild. Some high powered fliers from up north, maybe the Gate or even Neverwinter. Instead, they found something worse. No one survived from down below. No one but that mad mage and Aleria and her friends. Then the Cowlies showed up.

She’d heard from the few survivors of the team inside the Promenade that mage murdered a half dozen of the Cowlies before they brought him down. Carted him off along with one of Aleria’s friends, the girl named Imoen.

When the dust of the explosion had settled on her, she hadn’t thought much of it beyond how many dead. How many they’d lost. Now that broken hole in the masonry was an anchor around her neck. It’d put Aleria into the Guild’s sights. Pulled her into their orbit.

Into a war she barely understood. A war right out of the fairy tales. One where she’d gone from bit player to leading lady as more and more of her seniors suffered unfortunate fates. When the stones fell and the dust settled, she was little more than a courier with promise. Now her fate was bound to the woman who’d escaped that blast. Now she danced in the story, battling undead and Tymora knows what else. She’d witnessed miracles and magic she’d only imagined in her wildest dreams and bleakest nightmares.

As she took a deep breath, a terrible weight settled down over her. The knowledge that whatever she’d seen already would not be the worst. This knot had only begun to unspool and there would be worse to come.

There were ships in the harbor. The_ Valiant Vicky._ The_ Sassy Slattern._ The_ Gorgon._ She knew their captains. Their crews. If she ran_ now_, she could get out of the city. Head south back to Calimport. Ride the_ Gorgon_ to Neverwinter. Even take the_ Slattern_ all the way to the Dale.

She could do it. She’d have a chance. She could flee this dangerous pinnacle she stood on.

Her eyes settled on the _Den of the __Seven Veils_.

For all her ambition, now that she’d reached these heights, they terrified her. But at least up here she could see the daggers coming for her throat. Better than cowering down below.

Heaving a deep, dark sigh, she tugged her hood back into place and headed down the steps to the _Veils_.

\---@@@---

Unlike her walk through the streets around the docks, the crowds hustling through the shops and stalls of the Promenade seemed uniquely indifferent to the war going on around them. Perhaps it was the call of good business, the chance for profit that drew their attention away from such matters. Perhaps they thought their wealth would be a shield. Or perhaps for them, the thought of a few more dead thieves littering the streets was in general a good thing. A few less enterprising hands trying to empty their purses.

If only these oblivious fools knew some of those thieves were _undead_.

Frowning fiercely, she lifted the coin purse of a particularly well dressed man out of spite and slipped into the _Veils_. As she slipped the gold into one of the pockets of her vest, she realized it was a foolish thing to do, especially so close to the_ Veils_ itself. For all it’s tawdry appearance with it’s cheap silks and low cushions and scantily clad serving girls, Patricia, the old Calishite warhorse who ran the place, suffered no insult to her or her establishment’s reputation. You might leave the_ Veils_ with a very light coin purse, but that was because you liked her wine and her dancers, not because some halfwit was robbing her customers.

From beneath her hood, she spotted Patricia, holding court behind the bar. The morning drinkers and breakfasters were still finishing up but the crowd was thinning. Just enough to keep Patricia or the morning girl from actively seeking her out, giving her a free shot to the stairs. She moved with the purpose of the all night drinker, facing the ravages of the night’s drinking wearing off before one could find their pillow. Her masquerade must have worked because neither the girl or Patricia interrupted her. Not that it would have been a deal breaker for she was well enough known here. The stuffed grape leaves were the best in the city. But she was in a hurry and really didn’t want have to lie to the cheery face of a friend. Especially since she couldn’t be sure that Sareena hadn’t enlisted Patricia’s help in hiding her. She likely hadn’t, but even risking it… no. No. She didn’t want to cross even more people she liked. One was bad enough.

Undeterred, she slipped up the stairs to the rooms on the second floor unmolested. The second room on the right had a tacked over panel next to the fireplace that opened up to a gap between the wall framing around the second chimney, a hold over from one of the many repairs. For her, it was perfect as the shaft led right into the _Veils’_ storage rooms. She popped the lock quickly and slipped into the room, ignoring a loud argument about smells and imps in one of the other rooms.

Thankfully the room was unoccupied, simplifying her work. She walked to the fireplace and studied the edge of the wainscoting. A quick check revealed no traps and nary a tripwire behind it. She was rather disappointed. She pried the catch with a dagger and then hauled down on the panel edge, swinging it out and revealing the rough stone of the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, she climbed in and pulled the panel shut behind her.

Near total darkness enveloped her, the only illumination coming from the few wan beams of light that slipped past the paneling. An amateur might need more but she could climb in the darkness of a cloudy night. After all, as much as light helped you see, it helped those searching for you even more. She needed to find Sareena, not the other way round.

Sime carefully worked her way down the rough stones of the chimney. The freshly healed cut along her arm complained loudly any time she had to stretch for a handhold, turning a routine climb into a much slower one. She gritted her teeth through the pain while working more methodically and slowly. A little pain and a little caution were easier to bear than dropping two stories and shattering her ankles.

Finally, she reached the bottom of the chimney, dropping the last few inches to the storage room floor. She fished a rag out of from under her vest and set to work removing the worst of the dust, dirt and grime. Jamming the rag back under her vest and massaging a spot where a stone scratched her cheek, she silently asked Tymora why people refused to clean the secret passageways for her. It was so bloody inconvenient. She’d been clean… ish just a few minutes ago. Another moment of glamour in a glamorous job.

Eyes adjusting to the light coming in from the door to the scullery, she slid to the jam and listened. Fires burned, pots bubbled, but no sounds of humans moving about. Excellent. The path to the wine cellar and Sareena’s bolt hole was clear.

Pushing the door open, she checked and confirmed it was empty before sliding inside. The heat from the stoves heating water for cleaning and bathing hit her hard, washing over her with a pleasant, homey dampness. The heat washing over her was almost enough to warm the cold pit in her stomach.

Almost.

Keeping low, she slunk around the edge of the room to the heavy oak door of the wine cellar. Along the wall sat a bucket full of still warm water, probably from the washing up. Sniffing carefully for lye, she plunged her hands into it scrubbed her face clean. If you were going to betray someone, it was only polite to at least be presentable while doing it.

The locks to the wine cellar weren’t much of a challenge. Patricia obviously trusted her scullery maids. As she slipped inside, she examined that thought a little more carefully. Considering the quality of Patricia’s wine selection, expending money on quality locks would be a waste of time, akin to dressing an ass in the finest silks, perfuming it and rouging its cheeks. No matter what you did, it was still an ass.

Still, ass or no, she was inside the wine cellar. The access to Sareena’s bolthole was in the rear, to the right and behind the oldest rack of casks. Moving cautiously and slowly, she picked her way over to back of the room and to the false flagstones that made up the entrance of the bolthole.

She examined the entrance carefully. Sareena had never been great with traps but desperation proved a powerful motivator to learn. Last night certainly showed that to her.

Her examination revealed four nasties. The first two she knew from when she and Sareena shared this bolthole after the Farcooper job. She handled those with expected ease. The next two were far more impressive. A needle trap with its spring _just_ showing behind the latch with the extra feature of pull string attached to the needle, almost certainly for an alarm. Tricky work, especially in that small space, but Nelick, an old friend, taught her the perfect solution. Pulling a thin silk cord and a sewing needle from one of her hip pouches, she threaded the needle and cord through the spring. Looping it off, she grinned triumphantly. The door was clear.

As she wrapped her hand on the door handle, the grin died. She had to go confront her friend who her boss had labeled a traitor. Girding herself with the information that Sareena was working with the same monsters that nearly killed her and Mook, she took a deep breath and ready herself for the plunge.

Yet certainty refused to come. The pieces refused to fit together into treason. She _knew_ Sareena. Her old partner was many things, but by the wind’s graces, imaginative was not one of them. Treason of this order involved more creativity than Sareena’d been blessed with.

Still, she had her orders. Sareena had to have done _something_. Now she was going to find out.

Unlimbering her hand crossbow, she fitted one of the shocking bolts to the groove. It wasn’t just that the bolt was the most potent she had, but the jagged tines on the bolt’s head would be more intimidating, hopefully tipping the scales enough to keep the more physically powerful Sareena from trying to fight her in such close quarters.

Finally ready, she darted forward, side stepping the two pressure plates waiting for the unwary. She ghosted past the dividing curtain, wrapping herself around a crate and swung herself around towards the lone pallet in the back corner.

Leveling her crossbow, a tiny smile of professional pride ghosted across her lips. Sareena lay sprawled on her bed, asleep and in nothing but a tunic. She’d done it, achieved complete surprise.

She slipped the catch off the crossbow with an almost inaudible click. To Sareena’s credit, that was all she needed, waking with a start and swinging her legs out of bed. As swift as she was, she was still too late.

Sime glared down the length of the bolt, schooling her face into her Enforcers’ Mask; thin mouth, knit brows and narrowed eyes. With a voice far more confident and controlled then she felt, she said, “Morning Sareena. I think we need to have a little talk.”

Sareena, those big, beautiful brown eyes wide as saucers, stared unblinking at her though the darkness. Her eyes fell first on the bolt, then the bow and finally peered through the gloom under her hood. As their eyes met, she felt Sareena measuring her, probing her defenses. The room stilled, every breath painfully loud, every movement wildly amplified. The first confrontation had begun, will against will and Sime would not be found wanting.

Sareena’s eyes narrowed and those broad, muscular shoulders loosened. The taller woman flexed her hands and fingers, running through the little exercises designed to calm jittery nerves. The movement spread upwards, back through the shoulders and neck and settling in her face, the tightness of panic smoothing into an impressively calm and composed mask.

Hands suddenly sweaty, Sime shifted her grip on the leather wrapped handle of her crossbow. Palm damp on the leather, she suddenly understood why Harrik always harped on the need for properly tailored gloves for this sort of work. She could barely hold on to her weapon.

Silence settled on the room as both women realized that they’d come to the precipice, that most dangerous moment, the moment of decision. Sime might have the drop, but since she hadn’t simply fired first, all the initiative lay with Sareena. The next moments would play out how _she_ wanted them. Fight, flight, negotiation, surrender; all those possibilities existed together. Sareena would likely try to talk, but with the back against the wall, even the most predictable of people became dangerous. When she was younger, Sime remembered watching another street girl, even smaller than herself and cornered in a dead end, charge the two older toughs who’d tried to rape her and rip them into bloody ribbons.

If Sareena made such a desperate charge, she’d get the shot off. But if that first shot didn’t kill… she held no illusions she’d have a chance in hand to hand against the bigger, stronger woman.

“Sime?” Sareena asked.

“The one and only,” she replied flatly, trying to sound insouciant, confident, dangerous.

Sareena laughed. She bloody _laughed_. Her trigger finger twitched. “Oh thank Mask! Simey, I’m so happy to see you!”

Shaken by the laughter, Sime growled, “That’s not the most common reaction to a woman holding a crossbow on you.”

Sareena casually reached for the leather leggings and started slipping them on. “Maybe not. But it’s _you. _So,” Sareena grinned crookedly. “are you going to put that thing down or am I gonna have to take you over my knee again?”

“You got a strange way of showing friendship,” Sime fired back, feeling her cheeks burning with more than just anger. How could she think she was -that- stupid?

“Okay, okay, I was just kidding about the spanking. Jinkies Simey, you go off and join all the ‘super secret’ kiddies and suddenly you’re such a tight tunic,” she laughed, pulling her leggings up over her hips and starting to lace them up. “But fine. No more jokes. But by Mask am I glad to see you.”

Rage tightened her jaw. _Jokes_. Sareena was still making _jokes. _“Funny. You’d think _might _be concerned I tracked you down and am standing here with a _crossbow _pointed at you. Maybe because you’re working for the other guild. The one killing _our_ brothers and sisters.” A lump formed in her throat and she nearly choked on the words. “The ones who nearly killed Mook last night.”

All the color drained from Sareena’s face. Those brown eyes studied hers, searching her face, looking for the joke, the jape. Sime said nothing, just dropped _her _mask and let the truth show in her expression. Why not? If threats hadn’t worked, pain and anger might.

Sareena’s mouth worked wordlessly, her lips flapping like a beached fish’s until finally she found her voice. “Other guild? Mook? Simey… Simey what in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”

“Don’t call me Simey!” she growled, thrusting her crossbow at Sareena. “You lost the right the day you turned on us!”

“Simey…” She stopped suddenly, eyes widening as Sime’s face went fire hot. “Sime. Sime.” She said quickly, holding up her hands, palms out towards her. “Sime. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the member of any other guild. And I’d never do anything to hurt Mook. Come on Sime, you _know_ me. Would I do that?”

“Would you? I don’t know,” she growled back, her rage roiling like a sandstorm. “I don’t know anymore. But I do _know_ that Mook’s laying in a bed right now because some vampire assassins nearly managed to kill her! Assassins from that other guild, the one you were going to join… or Hells, maybe already joined.” She sneered and gestured violently with her crossbow. “So, do I know you? _Do_ I?”

Sareena backed away, right into the wall. “Sime, Sime, I’d never do that. Never. I never would betray the Guild, Sime. I’d never betray _you_ like that.”

“So, you were just conducting some counter intelligence work when you were having those talks with Rhinna then, right? Finding all about them and planning on telling your friends all about how those bastards were planning on killing Mook and wiping out the Guildhall.” She sneered. “Real good job you did on warning us. Lot of dead friends because you made a wrong turn trying to find me and let me know.”

“Rhinna?” Sareena shook her head violently and her cheeks flushed red. “_Rhinna?_ You’d come here and accuse me of switching sides on the word of that fickle, unreliable, treacherous whore? Who the Hells are you?!”

“Someone trying to protect what little family I have left.”

“I’m family too, Sime. We’ve been together_ how_ long … you think I’d betray you? Because that _whore_ said so?” Sareena swallowed hard and shook her head. She raked her hands through her short brown hair before finally looking up. “Is the rot that bad? This is what we’ve coming to. You’re going to -_you- _are going to kill me because that feckless bitch said so?!” For a moment, her eyes flashed with defiance. Rage. But the light died as quickly as it appeared. She heaved a weary, defeated sigh.. “Mask’s eyes... if you’re going to take her word over mine, then just fucking do it. Just… make it quick. For old time’s sake.”

A taunt about cut rate theatrics died on her lips. Even through her anger, the bleak resignation on her face was as clear as a desert morning. It wasn’t an act, no mirage to ensnare her for advantage. Not even Bayle was that good an actor.

Yes, Rhinna was the definition of an unreliable witness. The woman couldn’t even always be relied on to tell you if it was dark or day. When you were outside. Yes, Darkshadow had been _persausive, _but he knew that wasn’t always reliable. She assumed that Darkshadow had more, he must have. He didn’t act precipitously

Then again, he was nervous, edgy. He had purposefully sought her out to assign this mission to her. Out of channels, out of character. Could he be jumping to conclusions? Or letting his paranoia, a valuable asset when controlled and focused, run completely free?

She frowned, realizing suddenly that it was possible.

Rage bled out of her and her body shuddered as a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding rushed out of her chest. Her hand shook and her finger loosened on the trigger. But it didn’t come off.

Still, she’d found Sareena hiding. Hiding in her bolt hole. But she’d been happy to see her. Her head tilted first to one side than to the other. Many questions, few answers.

Voice uneven, unsteady, she set out in search of some of those answers. “Okay, let’s assume for a moment you aren’t a traitor and I shouldn’t just drag you in for Darkshadow to question.”

Sareena cut her off with a huge, chest shaking sigh and a very nervous laugh. “Yes, let’s assume that. Definitely.”

“So, let’s start with a few questions. Why would Rhinna name you?”

“For what she did with Taxos!” Sareena spat.

Sime grimaced. Even in as jaded as group as her fellow guildmates, the flagrancy with how Rhinna bedded Sareena’s then partner and lover had been the talk of the Guild for months. The two of them had shared far too many bottles of wine over it as well. “Because she f…”

“Because what I did to that bitch for revenge. You don’t think I could let that stand, do you? Show I was _that_ weak?” Sareena’s face curled into a hateful sneer. “She’s been looking for a way to get back at me. So once Darkshadow started spoolhing her guts out on a hot iron, she took it. That fucking whore’s luck, it even worked.”

Sime grimaced and blanched at the rage coming from her friend. As much as she understood, she also didn’t like the implication. Yes, Darkshadow was not a gentle interrogator but he was not a torturer. Of course, he did nothing to stop them. _Fear focused the mind better than steel_ as he would say. “Those stories are just that, Sareena. Stories. Yes, he can get rough but all this talk of hot iron and pincers? No more substance to them than a mirage.”

“You really believe that?” Sareena replied incredulously.

“Yes. I do,” she tossed back matter of factly.

“Oh Simey… so deep in and so blind…”

“Enough! We’re talking about you, not that piece of trash. Even if she did name you, there’s more. I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something more. What is it?”

“I don’t know!” Sarenna shouted. “Maybe it’s just that paranoid freak is finally getting to have his fun. Play his little sick games.”

She let the paranoia and rage slide off of her. Or at least she tried. “Maybe. Doesn’t explain why you were hiding.”

“I’m being hunted by Darkshadow! What more do I need to be afraid of?” Sareena replied quickly.

“And I work for him! Yet you were happy to see me!” she replied, eyes focusing on her friend’s face. The sums weren’t adding properly.

“But… but you’re my friend,” Sareena replied, wringing her hands. Splaying her hands out, she tried to grin. “I mean, why wouldn’t I think you didn’t mean me harm?”

“Sareena, I love you and all, but you’re not that dumb,” she said, eyes focused on her friends. “You _are _running from something but it’s not Darkshadow. _Who_?”

“Yes Sareena, who _are_ you running from?” The new voice sounded from behind her shoulder. With a silent curse that she’d let someone sneak up on her, she slid into a half turn to keep an eye on Sareena while scanning for the new threat. Her eyes only provided the confirmation her ears had already picked up. The voice was too familiar, too harsh for her not to remember.

Yzabel. The Knife herself swaggered out of the gloom, naked sword in her hand. Two of her chief lieutenants, the long and lean Annika, mind as harsh as the angles of her face and the thuggish, heavy browed Tirimos, trailed her like obedient pets. Both excellent fighters and vicious as rabid dogs. And mere pups compared to Yzabel.

The short, graying haired Knife swaggered into the dim light, her mouth curled into a twisted grin as she played with her sword, swinging it back and forth in short, quick arcs. She tilted her head up, looking right at Sareena. In the process, Yzabel nearly completely turned her back on _her_, when she had a loaded crossbow in her hand. Yzabel asked in a voice that was almost light and friendly if it weren’t punctuated with another swish of her sword slicing through the air, “You didn’t answer the question Sareena, who are you running from? You get involved in something you shouldn’t? Talk to someone you shouldn’t?”

Sareena swallowed hard, all the color bleeding from her face. She held her hands out palms out and started to back away from the sword’s point, the steel swinging dangerously close to her. “I didn’t Yzabel. I’m loyal, you know that. I didn’t talk to anybody. Not anybody.”

Yzabel smiled, her eyes so merciless that the blood froze in her veins. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, her finger still twitched on the trigger of her crossbow. A sudden thought popped into her head.

She had the shot. She could take it.

“That’s good, Sareena. That’s very good,” Yzabel replied.

To her left, Sareena took a deep breath, shoulders sagging with relief. The hairs on her own neck stood on end. There was something too vicious in The Knife’s smile. Her mouth went dry and her throat closed, as _what_ that smile meant locked into place. She wanted to call out a warning, but her mouth was as dry as a desert.

Blind and oblivious, Sareena sighed heavily, even smiling. “Thank you Yzabel.”

“Quite welcome.” Smile never wavering, Yzabel leapt forward, driving her sword into Sareena’s belly, just below the ribs.

Sareena’s big brown eyes flew wide open in total complete shock. She gasped, mouth working as if she was trying to force words out around the sword. Yzabel twisted the hilts and Sareena keened, blood running down her lips and chin as the blade tore deeper into her. As Sareena clutched at Yzabel, the older woman patted her cheek in a parody of affection. “Come now Sareena, can’t be that surprised. You cross the Knives… you get the knife.” With a short, sharp laugh, she flung Sareena to the ground in a spray of blood.

“That’s one traitor taken care of,” Yzabel said with a slight chuckle as she turned back to her lieutenants and away from both Sime and poor Sareena.

Stomach churning and chest tight, Sime stared down at Sareena, watching her gasp for one last breath and then go still. She watched the ever expanding pool of blood trickle through the rough cut stone, lapping at boots and furniture. Gagged as that increasingly all too familiar smell of death filled her nostrils. She stepped back, trying to keep her boots clear of her friend’s blood and bumped into a barrel because her eyes were still glued to the lifeless eyes of her friend. Choking down a toxic combination of bile and anger, Sime swallowed hard and with eyes burning and hand tensed around her crossbow, she whirled towards Yzabel and her two goons.

“I… I was supposed to bring her in! Darkshadow wanted her interrogated, not executed!” The words she shouted came from her tongue unbidden, somehow cutting off the righteous condemnations they’d started as. She wanted to scream about her murdered friend, bleeding into the stones yet instead they came out couched in the structure of her orders. “She’s no good to us now!”

Tirimos laughed hoarsely, braying like the jackass he was. “Don’t know Sime, seems she already spilled her guts to me!”

Annika chuckled, but both stopped laughing with the harsh chop of Yzabel’s hand. “Darkshadow’s orders or no, Sareena was one of _mine_, Sime. She was _mine_ to discipline as I saw fit.” Her still bloody sword in hand, she swung the point into Sime’s face, ignoring the outthrust crossbow and the loaded barbed bolt. She smiled, a singularly unpleasant expression on her hard face. “And I have far less tolerance of disloyalty and disobedience than some of my fellows. So, unless Darkshadow wants me to start disciplining _his_ people for their failings, he should stay out of my affairs.”

There was such menace in that smile that even with her crossbow pointed straight at the older woman’s chest, she took an involuntary step backwards. “Darkshadow has responsibility for all internal security,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice.

“That he does. And how many people did we lose last night at one of our most secure facilities?” Yzabel said flatly. “Too many good people. So maybe Darkshadow should spend more time checking that vaunted security and less time troubling himself over one of my stray charges. Unless he wants me …” Yzabel smiled that same deadly smile as she traced her blade down Sime’s body until the point pressing uncomfortably against her stomach. “checking up on _his_ people.”

She had a choice. She could pull the trigger and die or she could back down and maybe live. She had a terribly strong attachment to breathing. Enough to swallow her pride and her anger. For now. “You make a strong point.”

“As smart as you are pretty,” Yzabel cooed, her hand cupping her cheek and sliding up into her hair. The gloved fingers slid up the back of her head until they came to the tie that held her hair back. The older woman seized the knot and yanked back hard, baring Sime’s throat as she pushed her into the wall. The point of the blade never wavered. Neither did Yzabel’s smile.

Her temper flashed white hot. She would _never_ be a bully’s plaything again. “And you’re still as stupid as you are ugly.”

Yzabel’s smile froze into a rictus grin. “Too smart.”

With a harsh little laugh, she gripped the back of Sime’s head and smashed her into the stone wall of the chamber. Sime hit mouth first, her lower lip splitting on the stone. Her head snapped back and she staggered as Yzabel loosed her grip. Before she could fall, Yzabel slammed a leg into her groin and smashed her up against the wall. She brought her bloody sword right up to her throat, the blade still glistening with Sareena’s blood. Smiling, she pressed the edge against her skin, the blade sharp enough to nick her throat. Blood welled onto the blade, her blood mingling with her murdered friend’s.

“Now… pretty little thing, do we understand each other?”

“Y… yes.”

“Good. You can learn.” Yzabel’s smile brightened in a way that churned Sime’s stomach. “As we are one big, happy guild, I don’t want Darkshadow being disappointed in his latest little toy. Internal security being _so_ important. Tirimos, let’s send little Sime back with something to interrogate.”

Tirimos grinned toothily, displaying what teeth he still had left. He hefted his sword. “Right you are boss.” He stepped over Sareena’s body and slashed down. The room filled with a sickening, wet sound followed by metal thunking into stone.

Even as Tirimos lifted his blade, Sime squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to witness what the bastard was about to do. That seemed to entertain them all, the room filling with the low chuckles of the others.

“Well, Sime, don’t you want your prize for your master?” The contempt in Yzabel’s voice was so thick she could have spread it across bread.

“No. No I’m fine,” she choked out.

“Now now, we can’t have you going back empty handed. Darkshadow would be so angry at you and I’d hate to lose you so soon.” She gripped her free arm, squeezing the wrist until her hand popped open. Something wet and slippery was thrust into it and her hand was closed around it. “There. Course, you’ll probably want a sack for that. Don’t want the guard arresting you. Annika, get Sime a sack.”

Her will broke. Gorge rising, she twisted free of Yzabel’s grip, dropped her grisly prize and ran. Ran as fast as her feet could carry her, ducking through the passage and into the cellars of the inn with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Harsh, mocking laughter followed her, echoing in her ears.


End file.
